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STATE  NORMAL  SCHOO 

UOS  HNCELiE-G,  CflU 


CHRONICLES 


SCHONBERG-COTTA 


FAMILY 


IN     TWO     VOLUMES    -VOL.  I 


Q>%k  I 


NEW  YORK 

FREDERICK  A.   STOKES  COMPANY 

i  890 


The  portions  of  these  Chronicles  which  refer  to  Luther, 
Melanchthon,  Frederic  of  Saxony,  and  other  historical  persons,  can 
be  verified  from  Luther's  "Tischreden;"  Luther's  "Briefe,  Send- 
schreiben  und  Bedenken ; "  edited  by  De  Wette  ;  the  four  volumes 
called,  "Geist  aus  Luther's  Schriften,"  edited  by  F.  W.  Lomler, 
C.  F.  Lucius,  Dr.  T.  Rust,  L.  Sackreuter,  and  Dr.  Ernst  Zim- 
mermann;  Tutschmann's  "Friedrich  der  Weise;"  the  "History 
of  the  Reformation,"  by  Ranke;  and  that  by  D'Aubigne;  with 
the  ordinary  English  historical  works  relating  to  the  period. 


CHRONICLES 


SCHONBERG  cotta  family. 


ELSE  S   STORY. 

F riedrich  wishes  me  to  write  a  chronicle  of  my 
life.  Friedrich  is  my  eldest  brother.  I  am  sixteen, 
and  he  is  seventeen,  and  I  have  always  been  in  the 
habit  of  doing  what  he  wishes;  and  therefore,  although 
it  seems  to  me  a  very  strange  idea,  do  so  now.  It  is 
easy  for  Friedrich  to  write  a  chronicle,  or  anything 
else,  because  he  has  thoughts.  But  I  have  so  few 
thoughts,  I  can  only  write  what  I  see  and  hear  about 
people  and  things.  And  that  is  certainly  very  little  to 
write  about,  because  everything  goes  on  so  much  the 
same  always  with  us.  The  people  around  me  are  the 
same  I  have  known  since  I  was  a  baby,  and  the  things 
have  changed  very  little;  except  that  the  people  are 
more,  because  there  are  so  many  little  children  in  our 
home  now,  and  the  things  seem  to  me  to  become  less, 
because  my  father  does  not  grow  richer;  and  there  are 
more  to  clothe  and  feed.  However,  since  Fritz  wishes 
it,  I  will  try;  especially  as  ink  and  paper  are  the  two 


O  CHRONICLES   OP  THE  SCHONBERG-COTTA  FAMILY. 

things  which  are  plentiful  among  us,  because  my  father 
is  a  printer. 

Fritz  apd  I  have  never  been  separated  all  our  lives 
until  now.  Yesterday  he  went  to  the  University  at 
Erfurt.  It  was  when  I  was  crying  at  the  thought  of 
parting  with  him  that  he  told  me  his  plan  about  the 
chronicle.  He  is  to  write  one,  and  I  another.  He 
said  it  would  be  a  help  to  him,  as  our  twilight  talk 
has  been  —  when  always,  ever  since  I  can  remember, 
we  two  have  crept  away  in  summer  into  the  garden, 
under  the  great  pear-tree,  and  in  winter  into  the  deep 
window  of  the  lumber-room  inside  my  father's  printing- 
room,  where  the  bales  of  paper  are  kept,  and  old 
books  are  piled  up,  among  which  we  used  to  make 
ourselves  a  seat. 

It  may  be  a  help  and  comfort  to  Fritz,  but  I  do 
not  see  how  it  ever  can  be  any  to  me.  He  had  all 
the  thoughts,  and  he  will  have  them  still.  But  I  — 
what  shall  I  have  for  his  voice  and  his  dear  face,  but 
cold,  blank  paper,  and  no  thoughts  at  all!  Besides,  I 
am  so  very  busy,  being  the  eldest;  and  the  mother  is 
far  from  strong,  and  the  father  so  often  wants  me  to 
help  him  at  his  types,  or  to  read  to  him  while  he  sets 
them.  However,  Fritz  wishes  it,  and  I  shall  do  it.  I 
wonder  what  his  chronicle  will  be  like! 

But  where  am  I  to  begin?  What  is  a  chronicle? 
Two  of  the  books  in  the  Bible  are  called  "Chronicles" 
in  Latin  —  at  least  Fritz  says  that  is  what  the  other 
long  word  *  means  —  and  the  first  book  begins  with 
"Adam,"  I  know,  because  I  read  it  one  day  to  my 
father   for    his    printing.      But   Fritz    certainly   cannot 

*  Paralipomenon. 


ELSE'S   STORY.  9 

mean  me  to  begin  as  far  back  as  that.  Of  course  I 
could  not  remember.  I  think  I  had  better  begin  with 
the  oldest  person  I  know,  because  she  is  the  furthest 
on  the  way  back  to  Adam;  and  that  is  our  grandmother 
von  Schonberg.  She  is  very  old  —  more  than  sixty  — 
but  her  form  is  so  erect,  and  her  dark  eyes  so  piercing, 
that  sometimes  she  looks  almost  younger  than  her 
daughter,  our  precious  mother,  who  is  often  bowed 
down  with  ill-health  and  cares. 

Our  grandmother's  father  was  of  a  noble  Bohemian 
family,  and  that  is  what  links  us  with  the  nobles,  al- 
though my  father's  family  belongs  to  the  burgher  class. 
Fritz  and  I  like  to  look  at  the  old  seal  of  our  grand- 
father von  Schonberg,  with  all  its  quarterings,  and  to 
hea|»the  tales  of  our  knightly  and  soldier  ancestors  — 
of  cT^sader  and  baron.  My  mother,  indeed,  tells  us 
this  is  a  mean  pride,  and  that  my  father's  printing- 
press  is  a  symbol  of  a  truer  nobility  than  any  crest  of 
battle-axe  or  sword;  but  our  grandmother,  I  know, 
thinks  it  a  great  condescension  for  a  Schonberg  to  have 
married  into  a  burgher  family.  Fritz  feels  with  my 
mother,  and  says  the  true  crusade  will  be  waged  by 
our  father's  black  types  far  better  than  by  our  great- 
grandfather's lances.  But  the  old  warfare  was  so  beau- 
tiful, with  the  prancing  horses  and  the  streaming 
banners!  And  I  cannot  help  thinking  it  would  have 
been  pleasanter  to  sit  at  the  window  of  some  grand  old 
castle  like  the  Wartburg,  which  towers  above  our  town, 
and  wave  my  hand  to  Fritz,  as  he  rode,  in  flashing 
armour,  on  his  war-horse,  down  the  steep  hill  side,  in- 
stead of  climbing  up  on  piles  of  dusty  books  at  our 
lumber-room  window,  and  watching  him,  in  his  humble 
burger  dress,   with   his   wallet   (not   too    well   filled), 


10        CHRONICLES    OF   THE   SCHONBERG-COTTA   FAMILY. 

walk  down  the  street,  while  no  one  turned  to  look. 
Ah,  well!  the  parting  would  have  heen  as  dreary,  and 
Fritz  himself  could  not  he  nobler.  Only  I  cannot  help 
seeing  that  people  do  honour  the  bindings  and  the 
gilded  titles,  in  spite  of  all  my  mother  and  Fritz  can 
say,  and  I  should  like  my  precious  book  to  have  such 
a  binding,  that  the  people  who  could  not  read  the  in- 
side, might  yet  stop  to  look  at  the  gold  clasps  and  the 
jewelled  back.  To  those  who  can  read  the  inside,  per- 
haps it  would  not  matter.  For  of  all  the  old  barons 
and  crusaders  my  grandmother  tells  us  of,  I  know  well 
none  ever  were  or  looked  nobler  than  our  Fritz.  His 
eyes  are  not  blue,  like  mine  —  which  are  only  Ger- 
man Cotta  eyes,  but  dark  and  flashing.  Mine  are 
very  good  for  seeing,  sewing,  and  helping  about  the 
printing;  but  his,  I  think,  would  penetrate  men's 
hearts  and  command  them,  or  survey  a  battle-field  at 
a  glance. 

Last  week,  however,  when  I  said  something  of  the 
kind  to  him,  he  laughed,  and  said  there  were  better 
battle-fields  than  those  on  which  men's  bones  lay  bleach- 
ing; and  then  there  came  that  deep  look  into  his  eyes, 
when  he  seems  to  see  into  a  world  beyond  my  reach. 

But  I  began  with  our  grandmother,  and  here  I  am 
thinking  about  Friedrich  again.  I  am  afraid  that  he 
will  be  the  beginning  and  end  of  my  chronicle.  Fritz 
has  been  nearly  all  the  world  to  me.  I  wonder  if  that 
is  why  he  is  to  leave  me.  The  monks  say  we  must 
not  love  any  one  too  much;  and  one  day,  when  we 
went  to  see  Aunt  Agnes,  my  mother's  only  sister,  who 
is  a  nun  in  the  convent  of  Nimptschen,  I  remember  her 
saying  to  me  when  I  had  been  admiring  the  flowers  in 


else's  story.  11 

the  convent  garden,  "Little  Else,  will  you  come  and 
live  with  us,  and  be  a  happy,  blessed  sister  here?" 

I  said,  "Whose  sister,  Aunt  Agnes?  I  am  Fritz's 
sister!    May  Fritz  come  too?" 

"Fritz  could  go  into  the  monastery  at  Eisenach," 
she  said. 

"Then  I  would  go  with  him,"  I  said.  "I  am  Fritz's 
sister,  and  I  would  go  nowhere  in  the  world  without 
him." 

She  looked  on  me  with  a  cold,  grave  pity,  and  mur- 
mured, "Poor  little  one,  she  is  like  her  mother-,  the 
heart  learns  to  idolize  early.  She  has  much  to  unlearn. 
God's  hand  is  against  all  idols." 

That  is  many  years  ago-,  but  I  remember  as  if  it 
were  yesterday,  how  the  fair  convent  garden  seemed  to 
me  all  at  once  to  grow  dull  and  cheerless  at  her  words 
and  her  grave  looks,  and  I  felt  it  damp  and  cold  like 
a  church-yard ;  and  the  flowers  looked  like  made  flowers; 
and  the  walls  seemed  to  rise  like  the  walls  of  a  cave, 
and  I  scarcely  breathed  until  I  was  outside  again,  and 
had  hold  of  Fritz's  hand. 

For  I  am  not  at  all  religious.  I  am  afraid  I 
do  not  even  wish  to  be.  All  the  religious  men  and 
women  I  have  ever  seen  do  not  seem  to  me  half  so 
sweet  as  my  poor  dear  mother;  nor  as  kind,  clever, 
and  cheerful  as  my  father;  nor  half  as  noble  and  good 
as  Fritz.  And  the  Lives  of  Saints  puzzle  me  exceed- 
ingly, because  it  seems  to  me  that  if  every  one  were  to 
follow  the  example  of  St.  Catherine,  and  even  our  own 
St.  Elizabeth  of  Hungary,  and  disobey  their  parents, 
and  leave  their  little  children,  it  would  make  every- 
thing so  very  wrong  and  confused.  I  wonder  if  any 
one  else  ever  felt  the  same,  because  these  are  thoughts 


12        CHRONICLES   OF   THE   SCHONBERG-COTTA  FAMILY. 

I  have  never  even  told  to  Fritz;  for  he  is  religious,  and 
I  am  afraid  it  would  pain  him. 

Our  grandmother's  husband  fled  from  Bohemia  on 
account  of  religion  •,  but  I  am  afraid  it  was  not  the  right 
kind  of  religion,  because  no  one  seems  to  like  to  speak 
about  it;  and  what  Fritz  and  I  know  about  him  is  only 
what  we  have  picked  up  from  time  to  time,  and  put  to- 
gether for  ourselves. 

Nearly  a  hundred  years  ago,  two  priests  preached 
in  Bohemia,  called  John  Huss  and  Jerome  of  Prague. 
They  seem  to  have  been  dearly  beloved,  and  to  have 
been  thought  good  men  during  their  life-time ;  but 
people  must  have  been  mistaken  about  them,  for  they 
were  both  burnt  alive  as  heretics  at  Constance  in  two 
following,  years  —  in  1415  and  1416;  which  of  course 
proves  that  they  could  not  have  been  good  men,  but 
exceedingly  bad. 

However,  their  friends  in  Bohemia  would  not  give 
up  believing  what  they  had  learned  of  these  men,  al- 
though they  had  seen  what  end  it  led  to.  I  do  not 
think  this  was  strange,  because  it  is  so  very  difficult  to 
make  oneself  believe  what  one  ought,  as  it  is,  and  I  do 
not  see  that  the  fear  of  being  burned  even  would  help 
one  to  do  it;  although,  certainly,  it  might  keep  one 
silent.  But  these  friends  of  John  Huss  were  many  of 
them  nobles  and  great  men,  who  were  not  accustomed 
to  conceal  their  thoughts,  and  they  would  not  be  silent 
about  what  Huss  had  taught  them.  What  this  was, 
Fritz  and  I  never  could  find  out,  because  my  grand- 
mother, who  answers  all  our  other  questions,  never 
would  tell  us  a  word  about  this.  We  are,  therefore, 
afraid  it  must  be  something  very  wicked  indeed.  And 
yet,  when  I  asked  one  day  if  our  grandfather  (who,  we 


else's  story.  13 

think,  had  followed  Huss),  was  a  wicked  man,  her 
eyes  flashed  like  lightning,  and  she  said  vehemently,  — 

"Better  never  lived  or  died!1' 

This  perplexes  us,  hut  perhaps  we  shall  understand 
it,  like  so  many  other  things,  when  we  are  older. 

Great  troubles  followed  on  the  death  of  Huss. 
Bohemia  was  divided  into  three  parties,  who  fought 
against  each  other.  Castles  were  sacked,  and  noble 
women  and  little  children  were  driven  into  caves  and 
forests.  Our  forefathers  were  among  the  sufferers.  In 
1458  the  conflict  reached  its  height;  many  were  beheaded, 
hung,  burned  alive,  or  tortured.  My  grandfather  was 
killed  as  he  was  escaping,  and  my  grandmother  en- 
countered great  dangers,  and  lost  all  the  little  property 
which  was  left  her,  in  reaching  Eisenach,  a  young  wi- 
dow with  two  little  children,  my  mother  and  Aunt 
Agnes. 

Whatever  it  was  that  my  great  grandfather  believed 
wrong,  his  wife  did  not  seem  to  share  it.  She  took 
refuge  in  the  Augustinian  Convent,  where  she  lived 
until  my  Aunt  Agnes  took  the  veil,  and  my  mother 
was  married,  when  she  came  to  live  with  us.  She  is  as 
fond  of  Fritz  as  I  am,  in  her  way;  although  she  scolds 
us  all  in  turn,  which  is  perhaps  a  good  thing,  because 
as  she  says,  no  one  else  does.  And  she  has  taught  me 
nearly  all  I  know,  except  the  Apostles'  Creed  and  Ten 
Commandments,  which  our  father  taught  us,  and  the 
Paternoster  and  Ave  Mary  which  we  learned  at  our 
mother's  knee.  Fritz,  of  course,  knows  infinitely  more 
than  I  do.  He  can  say  the  Cisio  Janus  (the  Church 
Calendar)  through  without  one  mistake,  and  also  the 
Latiu  Grammar,  I  believe;  and  he  has  read  Latin 
books  of  which  I  cannot  remember  the  names ;    and  he 


14        CHRONICLES  OP  THE  SCHONBERG-COTTA  FAMILY. 

understands  all  that  the  priests  read  and  sing,  and  can 
sing  himself  as  well  as  any  of  them. 

But  the  legends  of  the  saints,  and  the  multiplication 
table,  and  the  names  of  herbs  and  flowers,  and  the  ac- 
count of  the  Holy  Sepulchre,  and  of  the  pilgrimage  to 
Rome,  —  all  these  our  grandmother  has  taught  us.  She 
looks  so  beautiful,  our  dear  old  grandmother,  as  she 
sits  by  the  stove  with  her  knitting,  and  talks  to  Fritz 
and  me,  with  her  lovely  white  hair  and  her  dark  bright 
eyes,  so  full  of  life  and  youth,  they  make  us  think  of 
the  fire  on  the  hearth  when  the  snow  is  on  the  roof, 
all  warm  within,  or,  as  Fritz  says, — 

"It  seems  as  if  her  heart  lived  always  in  the  sum- 
mer, and  the  winter  of  old  age  could  only  touch  her 
body." 

But  I  think  the  summer  in  which  our  grandmother's 
soul  lives  must  be  rather  a  fiery  kind  of  summer,  in 
which  there  are  lightnings  as  well  as  sunshine.  Fritz 
thinks  we  shall  know  her  again  at  the  Resurrection 
Day  by  that  look  in  her  eyes,  only  perhaps  a  little 
softened.  But  that  seems  to  me  terrible,  and  very  far 
off;  and  I  do  not  like  to  think  of  it.  "We  often  debate 
which  of  the  saints  she  is  like.  I  think  St.  Anna,  the 
mother  of  Mary,  mother  of  God,  but  Fritz  thinks  St. 
Catherine  of  Egypt,  because  she  is  so  like  a  queen. 

Besides  all  this,  I  had  nearly  forgotten  to  say  I 
know  the  names  of  several  of  the  stars,  which  Fritz 
taught  me.  And  I  can  knit  and  spin,  and  do  point 
stitch,  and  embroider  a  little.  I  intend  to  teach  it  all 
to  the  children.  There  are  a  great  many  children  in 
our  home,  and  more  every  year.  If  there  had  not  been 
so  many,  I  might  have  had  time  to  learn  more,  and 
also  to  be  more  religious;    but  I  cannot  see  what  they 


else's  story.  15 

would  do  at  home  if  I  were  to  have  a  vocation.  Per- 
haps some  of  the  younger  ones  may  be  spared  to  be- 
come saints.  I  wonder  if  this  should  turn  out  to  be 
so,  and  if  I  help  them,  if  any  one  ever  found  some 
little  humble  place  in  heaven  for  helping  some  one  else 
to  be  religious!  Because  then  there  might  perhaps  be 
hope  for  me  after  all. 

Our  father  is  the  wisest  man  in  Eisenach.  The 
mother  thinks,  perhaps,  in  the  world.  Of  this,  how- 
ever, our  grandmother  has  doubts.  She  has  seen  other 
places  besides  Eisenach,  which  is  perhaps  the  reason.  He 
certainly  is  the  wisest  man  I  ever  saw.  He  talks  about 
more  things  that  I  cannot  understand  than  any  one  else  I 
know.  He  is  also  a  great  inventor.  He  thought  of  the 
plan  of  printing  books  before  any  one  else,  and  had  almost 
completed  the  invention  before  any  press  was  set  up. 
And  he  always  believed  there  was  another  world  on 
the  other  side  of  the  great  sea,  long  before  the  Admiral 
Christopher  Columbus  discovered  America.  The  only 
misfortune  has  been  that  some  one  else  has  always 
stepped  in  just  before  he  had  completed  his  inventions, 
when  nothing  but  some  little  insignificant  detail  was 
wanting  to  make  everything  perfect,  and  carried  off  all 
the  credit  and  profit.  It  is  this  which  has  kept  us 
from  becoming  rich,  —  this  and  the  children.  But  the 
father's  temper  is  so  placid  and  even,  nothing  ever 
sours  it.  And  this  is  what  makes  us  all  admire  and 
love  him  so  much,  even  more  than  his  great  abilities. 
He  seems  to  rejoice  in  these  successes  of  other  people 
just  as  much  as  if  he  had  quite  succeeded  in  making 
them  himself.  If  the  mother  laments  a  little  over  the 
fame  that  might  have  been  his,  he  smiles  and  says,  — ■ 


16         CliBOKlCLES  OF  THE  SCHONBEKG-COTXA  FAMILY. 

"Never  mind,  little  mother.  It  will  be  all  the  same 
a  hundred  years  hence.  Let  us  not  grudge  any  one 
his  reward.  The  world  has  the  benefit  if  we  have 
not." 

Then  if  the  mother  sighs  a  little  over  the  scanty 
larder  and  wardrobe,  he  replies,  — 

•'Cheer  up,  little  mother,  there  are  more  Americas 
yet  to  be  discovered,  and  more  inventions  to  be  made. 
In  fact,"  he  adds,  with  that  deep  far  seeing  look  of 
his,  "something  else  has  just  occurred  to  me,  which, 
when  I  have  brought  it  to  perfection,  will  throw  all 
the  discoveries  of  this  and  every  other  age  into  the 
shade." 

And  he  kisses  the  mother  and  departs  into  his 
printing-room.  And  the  mother  looks  wonderingly 
after  him,  and  says,  — 

"We  must  not  disturb  the  father,  children,  with 
our  little  cares.  He  has  great  things  in  his  mind, 
which  we  shall  all  reap  the  harvest  of  some  day." 

So,  she  goes  to  patch  some  little  garment  once 
more,  and  to  try  to  make  one  day's  dinner  expand 
into  enough  for  two. 

What  the  father's  great  discovery  is  at  present, 
Fritz  and  I  do  not  quite  know.  But  we  think  it  has 
something  to  do ,  either  with  the  planets  and  the  stars, 
or  with  that  wonderful  stone  the  philosophers  have 
been  so  long  occupied  about.  In  either  case,  it  is  sure 
to  make  us  enormously  rich  all  at  once;  and,  mean- 
time, we  may  well  be  content  to  eke  out  our  living  as 
best  we  can. 

Of  the  mother  I  cannot  think  of  anything  to  say. 


else's  story.  17 

She  is  just  the  mother  —  our  own  dear,  patient,  lov- 
ing, little  mother  —  unlike  every  one  else  in  the 
world;  and  yet  it  seems  as  if  there  was  nothing  to  say 
about  her  by  which  one  could  make  any  one  else 
understand  what  she  is.  It  seems  as  if  she  were  to 
other  people  (with  reverence  I  say  it)  just  what  the 
blessed  Mother  of  God  is  to  the  other  saints.  St.  Ca- 
therine has  her  wheel  and  her  crown,  and  St.  Agnes 
her  lamb  and  her  palm,  and  St.  Ursula  her  eleven 
thousand  virgins;  but  Mary,  the  ever-blessed,  has  only 
the  Holy  Child.  She  is  the  blessed  woman,  the  Holy 
Mother,  and  nothing  else.  That  is  just  what  the  mother 
is.  She  is  the  precious  little  mother,  and  the  best 
woman  in  the  world,  and  that  is  all.  I  could  describe 
her  better  by  saying  what  she  is  not.  She  never  says 
a  harsh  word  to  any  one  nor  of  any  one.  She  is  never 
impatient  with  the  father,  like  our  grandmother.  She 
is  never  impatient  with  the  children,  like  me.  She 
never  complains  or  scolds.  She  is  never  idle.  She 
never  looks  severe  and  cross  at  us,  like  Aunt  Agnes. 
But  I  must  not  compare  her  with  Aunt  Agnes,  because 
she  herself  once  reproved  me  for  doing  so;  she  said 
Aunt  Agnes  was  a  religious,  a  pure,  and  holy  woman, 
far,  far  above  her  sphere  or  ours;  and  we  might  be 
thankful,  if  we  ever  reached  heaven  if  she  let  us  kiss 
the  hem  of  her  garment. 

Yes,  Aunt  Agnes  is  a  holy  woman  —  a  nun;  I 
must  be  careful  what  I  say  of  her.  She  makes  long, 
long  prayers,  they  say,  —  so  long  that  she  has  been 
found  in  the  morning  fainting  on  the  cold  floor  of  the 
convent  church.  She  eats  so  little  that  Father  Christopher, 
who  is  the  convent  confessor  and  ours,   says  he  eome- 

Schonbcrg-Cotta  Family.  I.  2 


18        CHRONICLES   OF  THE  SOHONBEROr-COTTA  FAMILY. 

times  thinks  she  must  be  sustained  by  angels.  But 
Fritz  and  I  think  that,  if  that  is  true,  the  angel's  food 
cannot  be  very  nourishing;  for,  when  we  saw  her  last, 
through  the  convent  grating,  she  looked  like  a  shadow 
in  her  black  robe,  or  like  that  dreadful  picture  of  death 
we  saw  in  the  convent  chapel.  She  wears  the  coarsest 
sackcloth,  and  often,  they  say,  sleeps  on  ashes.  One 
of  the  nuns  told  my  mother,  that  one  day  when  she 
fainted,  and  they  had  to  unloose  her  dress,  they  found 
scars  and  stripes,  scarcely  healed,  on  her  fair  neck  and 
arms,  which  she  must  have  inflicted  on  herself.  They 
all  say  she  will  have  a  very  high  place  in  heaven;  but 
it  seems  to  me,  unless  there  is  a  very  great  difference 
between  the  highest  and  lowest  places  in  heaven,  it  is 
a  great  deal  of  trouble  to  take.  But,  then,  I  am  not 
religious;  and  it  is  altogether  so  exceedingly  difficult 
to  me  to  understand  about  heaven.  Will  every  one  in 
heaven  be  always  struggling  for  the  high  places?  Be- 
cause when  every  one  does  that  at  church  on  the  great 
festival  days,  it  is  not  at  all  pleasant;  those  who  suc- 
ceed look  proud,  and  those  who  fail  look  cross.  But, 
of  course,  no  one  will  be  cross  in  heaven,  nor  proud. 
Then  how  will  the  saints  feel  who  do  not  get  the  highest 
places?  Will  they  be  pleased  or  disappointed?  If 
they  are  pleased,  what  is  the  use  of  struggling  so  much 
to  climb  a  little  higher?  And  if  they  are  not  pleased, 
would  that  be  saint-like?  Because  the  mother  always 
teaches  us  to  choose  the  lowest  places,  and  the  eldest 
to  give  up  to  the  little  ones.  Will  the  greatest,  then, 
not  give  up  to  the  little  ones  in  heaven?  Of  one  thing 
I  feel  sure:  if  the  mother  had  a  high  place  in  heaven, 
she  would  always  be'  stooping  down  to  help  some  one 
else  up,  or  making  room  for  others.     And  then,  what 


else's  story.  19 

are  the  highest  places  in  heaven?  At  the  emperor's 
court,  I  know,  they  are  the  places  nearest  him;  the 
seven  Electors  stand  close  around  the  throne.  But  can 
it  be  possible  that  any  would  ever  feel  at  ease,  and 
happy  so  very  near  the  Almighty?  It  seems  so  ex- 
ceedingly difficult  to  please  Him  here,  and  so  very 
easy  to  offend  Him,  that  it  does  seem  to  me  it  would 
be  happier  to  be  a  little  further  off,  in  some  little  quiet 
corner  near  the  gate,  with  a  good  many  of  the  saints 
between.  The  other  day,  Father  Christopher  ordered 
me  such  a  severe  penance  for  dropping  a  crumb  of  the 
sacred  Host;  although  I  could  not  help  thinking  it  was 
as  much  the  priest's  fault  as  mine.  But  he  said  God 
would  be  exceedingly  displeased;  and  Fritz  told  me 
the  priests  fast  and  torment  themselves  severely  some- 
times, for  only  omitting  a  word  in  the  Mass. 

Then  the  awful  picture  of  the  Lord  Christ,  with 
the  lightnings  in  his  hand!  It  is  very  different  from 
the  carving  of  him  on  the  cross.  Why  did  he  suffer 
so?  Was  it,  like  Aunt  Agnes,  to  get  a  higher  place 
in  heaven?  or,  perhaps,  to  have  the  right  to  be  severe, 
as  she  is  with  us?  Such  very  strange  things  seem  to 
offend  and  to  please  God,  I  cannot  understand  it  at 
all;  but  that  is  because  I  have  no  vocation  for  religion. 
In  the  convent,  the  mother  says,  they  grow  like  God, 
and  so  understand  him  better. 

Is  Aunt  Agnes,  then,  more  like  God  than  our 
mother?  That  face,  still  and  pale  as  death;  those 
cold,  severe  eyes;  that  voice,  so  hollow  and  monoton- 
ous, as  if  it  came  from  a  metal  tube  or  a  sepulchre, 
instead  of  from  a  heart!  Is  it  with  that  look  God  will 
meet  us,  with  that  kind  of  voice  he  will  speak  to  us? 
Indeed,  the  Judgment-day  is  very  dreadful  to  think  of; 

2* 


20        CHRONICLES   OF  THE  SCTIONBERG-COTTA  FAMILY. 

and  one  must  indeed  need  to  live  many  years  in  the 
convent  not  to  be  afraid  of  going  to  heaven. 

Oh,  if  only  our  mother  were  the  saint  —  the  kind 
of  good  woman  that  pleased  God  —  instead  of  Aunt 
Agnes,  how  sweet  it  would  be  to  try  and  be  a  saint 
then;  and  how  sure  one  would  feel  that  one  might 
hope  to  reach  heaven,  and  that,  if  one  reached  it,  one 
would  be  happy  there! 

Aunt  Ursula  Gotta  is  another  of  the  women  I  wish 
were  the  right  kind  of  saint.  She  is  my  father's  first 
cousin's  wife ;  but  we  have  always  called  her  aunt,  be- 
cause almost  all  little  children  who  know  her  do,  — 
she  is  so  fond  of  children,  and  so  kind  to  every  one. 
She  is  not  poor  like  us,  although  Cousin  Conrad  Cotta 
never  made  any  discoveries,  or  even  nearly  made  any. 
There  is  a  picture  of  St.  Elizabeth  of  Thuringia,  our 
sainted  Landgravine,  in  our  parish  church,  which  al- 
ways makes  me  think  of  Aunt  Ursula.  St.  Elizabeth  is 
standing  at  the  gate  of  a  beautiful  castle,  something 
like  our  castle  of  the  Wartburg,  and  around  her  are 
kneeling  a  crowd  of  very  poor  people  —  cripples,  and 
blind,  and  poor  thin  mothers,  with  little  hungry-looking 
children  —  all  stretching  out  their  hands  to  the  lady, 
who  is  looking  on  with  such  kindly,  compassionate 
looks,  just  like  Aunt  Ursula-,  except  that  St.  Elizabeth 
is  very  thin  and  pale,  and  looks  almost  as  nearly  starved 
as  the  beggars  around  her,  and  Aunt  Ursula  is  rosy 
and  fat,  with  the  pleasantest  dimples  in  her  round  face. 
But  the  look  in  the  eyes  is  the  same  —  so  loving,  and 
true,  and  earnest,  and  compassionate.  The  thinness  and 
pallor  are,  of  course,  only  just  the  difference  there 
must  be  between  a  saint  who  fasts,  and  does  so  much 
penance,  and  keeps  herself  awake  whole  nights  saying 


ELSE'S   fciTORY.  21 

prayers,  as  St.  Elizabeth  did,  and  a  prosperous  burgher's 
wife,  who  eats  and  sleeps  like  other  people,  and  is  only 
like  the  good  Landgravine  in  being  so  kind  to  every 
one. 

The  other  half  of  the  story  of  the  picture,  however, 
would  not  do  for  Aunt  Ursula.  In  the  apron  of  the 
saint,  instead  of  loaves  of  bread  are  beautiful  clusters 
of  red  roses.  Our  grandmother  told  us  the  meaning 
of  this.  The  good  Landgravine's  husband  did  not 
quite  like  her  giving  so  much  to  the  poor ;  because 
she  was  so  generous  she  would  have  left  the  treasury 
bare.  So  she  used  to  give  her  alms  unknown  to  him. 
But  on  this  day  when  she  was  giving  away  those 
loaves  to  the  beggars  at  the  castle  gate,  he  happened 
suddenly  to  return,  and  finding  her  occupied  in  this 
way,  he  asked  her  rather  severely  what  she  had  in  her 
apron.     She  said  "roses!" 

"Let  me  see,"  said  the  Landgrave. 

And  God  loved  her  so  much,  that  to  save  her  from 
being  blamed,  he  wrought  a  miracle.  When  she  opened 
her  apron,  instead  of  the  loaves  she  had  been  distribut- 
ing, there  were  beautiful  flowers.  And  this  is  what  the 
picture  represents.  I  always  wanted  to  know  the  end 
of  the  story.  I  hope  God  worked  another  miracle 
when  the  Landgrave  went  away,  and  changed  the  roses 
back  into  loaves.  I  suppose  He  did,  because  the 
starving  people  look  so  contented.  But  our  grand- 
mother does  not  know.  Only  in  this,  I  do  not  think 
Aunt  Ursula  would  have  done  the  same  as  the  Land- 
gravine. I  think  she  would  have  said  boldly  if  Cousin 
Cotta  had  asked  her,  "I  have  loaves  in  my  apron,  and 
I  am  giving  them  to  these  poor  starving  subjects  of 
yours  and  mine,"   and  never  been   afraid  of  what  he 


22        CHRONICLES  OF  THE  SCHONBERG-COTTA  FAHILY. 

would  say.  And  then,  perhaps,  Cousin  Cotta  —  I 
mean  the  Landgrave's  —  heart  would  have  heen  so 
touched,  that  he  would  have  forgiven  her,  and  even 
praised  her,  and  brought  her  some  more  loaves.  And 
then  instead  of  the  bread  being  changed  to  flowers,  the 
Landgrave's  heart  would  have  been  changed  from  stone 
to  flesh,  which  does  seem  a  better  thing.  But  when  I 
once  said  this  to  grandmother,  she  said  it  was  very 
wrong  to  fancy  other  ends  to  the  legends  of  the  saints, 
just  as  if  they  were  fairy  tales;  that  St.  Elizabeth  really 
lived  in  that  old  castle  of  the  Wartburg,  not  more  than 
three  hundred  years  ago,  and  walked  through  those 
very  streets  of  Eisenach,  and  gave  alms  to  the  poor 
here,  and  went  into  the  hospitals,  and  dressed  the  most 
loathsome  wounds  that  no  one  else  would  touch,  and 
spoke  tender  loving  words  to  wretched  outcasts  no  one 
else  would  look  at.  That  seems  to  me  so  good  and 
dear  of  her ;  but  that  is  not  what  made  her  a  saint, 
because  Aunt  Ursula  and  our  mother  do  things  like 
that,  and  our  mother  has  told  me  again  and  again  that 
it  is  Aunt  Agnes  who  is  like  the  saint,  and  not  she. 

It  is  what  she  suffered,  I  suppose,  that  has  made 
them  put  her  in  the  Calendar;  and  yet  it  is  not  suffer- 
ing in  itself  that  makes  people  saints,  because  I  do  not 
believe  St.  Elizabeth  herself  suffered  more  than  our 
mother.  It  is  true  she  used  to  leave  her  husband's 
side  and  kneel  all  night  on  the  cold  floor,  while  he 
was  asleep.  But  the  mother  has  done  the  same  as  that 
often  and  often.  When  any  of  the  little  ones  has  been 
ill,  how  often  she  has  walked  up  and  down  hour  after 
hour,  with  the  sick  child  in  her  arms,  soothing  and 
fondling  it,  and  quieting  all  its  fretful  cries  with  un- 
wearying  tender  patience.     Then  St.  Elizabeth  fasted 


else's  story.  23 

until  she  was  almost  a  shadow,  but  how  often  have  I 
seen  our  mother  quietly  distribute  all  that  was  nice 
and  good  in  our  frugal  meals  to  my  father  and  the 
children,  scarcely  leaving  herself  a  bit,  and  hiding  her 
plate  behind  a  dish  that  the  father  might  not  see.  And 
Fritz  and  I  often  say  how  wasted  and  worn  she  looks; 
not  like  the  Mother  of  Mercy  as  we  remember  her, 
but  too  much  like  the  wan  pale  Mother  of  Sorrows 
with  the  pierced  heart.  Then  as  to  pain,  have  not  I 
seen  our  mother  suffer  pain  compared  with  which  Aunt 
Agnes  or  St.  Elizabeth's  discipline  must  be  like  the 
prick  of  a  pin. 

But  yet  all  that  is  not  the  right  kind  of  suffering 
to  make  a  saint.  Our  precious  mother  walks  up  and 
down  all  night  not  to  make  herself  a  saint,  but  to 
soothe  her  sick  child.  She  eats  no  dinner,  not  because 
she  chooses  to  fast,  but  because  we  are  poor,  and  bread 
is  dear.  She  suffers,  because  God  lays  suffering  upon 
her,  not  because  she  takes  it  on  herself.  And  all  this 
cannot  make  her  a  saint.  When  I  say  anything  to 
compassionate  or  to  honour  her,  she  smiles  and  says,  — 

"My  Else,  I  chose  this  lower  life  instead  of  the 
high  vocation  of  your  Aunt  Agnes,  and  I  must  take 
the  consequences.  We  cannot  have  our  portion  both 
in  this  world  and  the  next." 

If  the  size  of  our  mother's  portion  in  the  next 
world  were  to  be  in  proportion  to  its  smallness  in  this, 
I  think  she  might  have  plenty  to  spare ;  but  this  I  do 
not  venture  to  say  to  her. 

There  is  one  thing  St.  Elizabeth  did  which  certainly 
our  mother  would  never  do.  She  left  her  little  father- 
less children  to  go  into  a  convent.  Perhaps  it  was 
this  that   pleased  G-od    and    the  Lord  Jesus  Christ   so 


24        CHRONICLES   OF   THE   SCHUNBERG-COTTA  FAMLLY. 

very  much,  that  they  took  her  up  to  be  so  high  in 
heaven.  If  this  is  the  case,  it  is  a  great  mercy  for 
our  father  and  for  us  that  our  mother  has  not  set  her 
heart  on  being  a  saint.  We  sometimes  think,  however, 
that  perhaps  although  He  cannot  make  her  a  saint  on 
account  of  the  rules  they  have  in  heaven  about  it,  God 
may  give  our  mother  some  little  good  thing,  or  some 
kind  word,  because  of  her  being  so  very  good  to  us. 
She  says  this  is  no  merit,  however,  because  of  her 
loving  us  so  much.  If  she  loved  us  less,  and  so  found 
it  more  a  trouble  to  work  for  us-,  or  if  we  were  little 
stranger  beggar  children  she  chose  to  be  kind  to,  in- 
stead of  her  own,  I  suppose  God  would  like  it  better. 

There  is  one  thing,  moreover,  in  St.  Elizabeth's 
history  which  once  brought  Fritz  and  me  into  great 
trouble  and  perplexity.  When  we  were  little  children, 
and  did  not  understand  things  as  we  do  now,  but 
thought  we  ought  to  try  and  imitate  the  saints,  and 
that  what  was  right  for  them  must  be  right  for  us,  and 
when  our  grandmother  had  been  telling  us  about  the 
holy  Landgravine  privately  selling  her  jewels,  and 
emptying  her  husband's  treasury  to  feed  the  poor,  we 
resolved  one  day  to  go  and  do  likewise.  We  knew  a 
very  poor  old  woman  in  the  next  street,  with  a  great 
many  orphan  grandchildren,  and  we  planned  a  long 
time  together  before  we  thought  of  the  way  to  help  her 
like  St.  Elizabeth.  At  length  the  opportunity  came. 
It  was  Christmas  eve,  and  for  a  rarity  there  were  some 
meat,  and  apples,  and  pies  in  our  store-room.  We  crept 
into  the  room  in  the  twilight,  filled  my  apron  with 
pies,  and  meat,  and  cakes,  and  stole  out  to  our  old 
woman's  to  give  her  our  booty. 

The  next  morning  the  larder  was  found  despoiled 


iXSE's   STOKY.  25 

of  lialf  of  what  was  to  have  been  our  Christmas  dinner. 
The  children  cried,  and  the  mother  looked  almost  as 
distressed  as  they  did.  The  father's  placid  temper  for 
once  was  roused,  and  he  cursed  the  cat  and  the  rats, 
and  wished  he  had  completed  his  new  infallible  rat 
trap.     Our  grandmother  said  very  quietly,  — 

"Thieves  more  discriminating-  than  rats  or  mice 
have  been  here.  There  are  no  crumbs,  and  not  a  thing 
is  out  of  place.  Besides,  I  never  heard  of  rats  or  mice 
eating  pie-dishes. 

Fritz  and  I  looked  at  each  other,  and  began  to 
fear  we  had  done  wrong,  when  little  Christopher  said  — 

"I  saw  Fritz  and  Els&  carry  out  the  pies  last 
night." 

"Else!  Fritz!1'  said  our  father,  "what  does  this 
mean?" 

I  would  have  confessed,  but  I  remembered  St.  Eli- 
zabeth and  the  roses,  and  said,  with  a  trembling 
voice  — 

"They  were  not  pies  you  saw,  Christopher,  but 
roses." 

"Roses,"  said  the  mother  very  gravely,  "at  Christ- 
mas!" 

I  almost  hoped  the  pies  would  have  reappeared  on 
the  shelves.  It  was  the  very  juncture  at  which  they 
did  in  the  legend;  but  they  did  not.  On  the  contrary, 
everything  seemed  to  turn  against  us. 

"Fritz,"  said  our  father  very  sternly,  "tell  the  trutb, 
or  I  shall  give  you  a  flogging." 

This  was  a  part  of  the  story  where  St.  Elizabeth's 
example  quite  failed  us.  I  did  not  know  what  she 
would  have  done  if  some  one  else  had  been  punished 
for  her  generosity;  but  I  felt  no  doubt  what  I  must  do 


26        CHRONICLES   OF  THE  SCHONBERG-COTTA  FAMILY. 

"0  father!"  I  said,  "it  is  my  fault  —  it  was  my 
thought!  We  took  the  things  to  the  poor  old  woman 
in  the  next  street  for  her  grandchildren." 

"Then  she  is  no  better  than  a  thief,"  said  our 
father,  "to  have  taken  them.  Fritz  and  Else,  foolish 
children,  shall  have  no  Christmas  dinner  for  their  pains  •, 
and  Else  shall,  moreover,  he  locked  into  her  own  room, 
for  telling  a  story." 

I  was  sitting  shivering  in  my  room,  wondering 
how  it  was  that  things  succeeded  so  differently  with 
St.  Elizabeth  and  with  us,  when  Aunt  Ursula's  round 
pleasant  voice  sounded  up  the  stairs,  and  in  another 
minute  she  was  holding  me  laughing  in  her  arms. 

"My  poor  little  Else!  We  must  wait  a  little  be- 
fore we  imitate  our  patron  saint;  or  we  must  begin  at 
the  other  end.  It  would  never  do,  for  instance,  for 
me  to  travel  to  Rome  with  eleven  thousand  young 
ladies  like  St.  Ursula." 

My  grandmother  had  guessed  the  meaning  of  our 
foray,  and  Aunt  Ursula  coming  in  at  the  time,  had 
heard  the  narrative,  and  insisted  on  sending  us  another 
Christmas  dinner.  Fritz  and  I  secretly  believed  that 
St.  Elizabeth  had  a  good  deal  to  do  with  the  replacing 
of  our  Christmas  dinner;  but  after  that,  we  understood 
that  caution  was  needed  in  transferring  the  holy  ex- 
ample of  the  saints  to  our  own  lives,  and  that  at 
present  we  must  not  venture  beyond  the  ten  com- 
mandments. 

Yet  to  think  that  St.  Elizabeth,  a  real  canonized 
saint  —  whose  picture  is  over  altars  in  the  churches  — 
whose  good  deeds  are  painted  on  the  church  windows, 
and  illumined  by  the  sun  shining  through  them  —  whose 
bones  are  laid  up  in  reliquaries,  one  of  which  I  wear 


ELSE'S   STORY.  27 

always  next  my  heart  —  actually  lived  and  prayed  in 
that  dark  old  castle  above  us,  and  walked  along  these 
very  streets  —  perhaps  even  had  been  seen  from  this 
window  of  Fritz's  and  my  beloved  lumber-room. 

Only  three  hundred  years  ago!  If  only  I  had  lived 
three  hundred  years  earlier,  or  she  three  hunched  years 
later,  I  might  have  seen  her  and  talked  to  her,  and 
asked  her  what  it  was  that  made  her  a  saint.  There 
are  so  many  questions  I  should  like  to  have  asked  her. 
I  would  have  said,  "Dear  St.  Elizabeth,  tell  me  what 
it  is  that  makes  you  a  saint?  It  cannot  be  your  charity, 
because  no  one  can  be  more  charitable  than  Aunt  Ursula, 
and  she  is  not  a  saint;  and  it  cannot  be  your  sufferings, 
or  your  patience,  or  your  love,  or  your  denying  yourself 
for  the  sake  of  others,  because  our  mother  is  like  you  in 
all  that,  and  she  is  not  a  saint.  Was  it  because  you 
left  your  little  children,  that  God  loves  you  so  much? 
or  because  you  not  only  did  and  bore  the  things  C4od 
laid  on  you,  as  our  mother  does,  but  chose  out  other 
things  for  yourself,  which  you  thought  harder?"  And 
if  she  were  gentle  (as  I  think  she  was),  and  would 
have  listened,  I  would  have  asked  her,  "Holy  Land- 
gravine, why  are  things  which  were  so  right  and  holy 
in  you,  wrong  for  Fritz  and  me?"  And  I  would 
also  have  asked  her,  "Dear  St.  Elizabeth,  my  patro- 
ness, what  is  it  in  heaven  that  makes  you  so  happy 
there?" 

But  I  forgot  —  she  would  not  have  been  in  heaven 
at  all.  She  would  not  even  have  been  made  a  saint, 
because  it  was  only  after  her  death,  when  the  sick  and 
crippled  were  healed  by  touching  her  body,  that  they 
found  out  what  a  saint  she  had  been.  Perhaps,  even, 
she   would   not  herself  have  known  she  was  a  saint. 


26        CHRONICLES   Oi'  THE  fcOUONBERG-COTTA  FAMILY. 

And  if  so,   I  wonder  if  it  can  be   possible  that  our 
mother  is  a  saint  after  all,  only  she  does  not  know  it! 

Fritz  and  I  are  four  or  five  years  older  than  any 
of  the  children.  Two  little  sisters  died  of  the  plague 
before  any  more  were  born.  One  was  baptized,  and 
died  when  she  was  a  year  old,  before  she  could  soil 
her  baptismal  robes.  Therefore  we  feel  sure  she  is  in 
paradise.  I  think  of  her  whenever  I  look  at  the  cloud 
of  glory  around  the  Blessed  Virgin  in  St.  George's 
Church.  Out  of  the  cloud  peep  a  number  of  happy 
childfaces  —  some  leaning  their  round  soft  cheeks  on 
their  pretty  dimpled  hands,  and  all  looking  up  with 
such  confidence  at  the  dear  mother  of  God.  I  suppose 
the  little  children  in  heaven  especially  belong  to  her. 
It  must  be  very  happy,  then,  to  have  died  young. 

But  of  that  other  little  nameless  babe  who  died  at 
the  same  time  none  of  us  ever  dare  to  speak.  It  was 
not  baptized,  and  they  say  the  souls  of  little  unbaptized 
babes  hover  about  for  ever  in  the  darkness  between 
heaven  and  hell.  Think  of  the  horror  of  falling  from 
the  loving  arms  of  our  mother  into  the  cold  and  the 
darkness,  to  shiver  and  wail  there  for  ever,  and  belong 
to  no  one.  At  Eisenach  we  have  a  Foundling  Hospital, 
attached  to  one  of  the  nunneries  founded  by  St.  Eliza- 
beth, for  such  forsaken  little  ones.  If  St.  Elizabeth 
could  only  establish  a  Foundling  somewhere  near  the 
gates  of  paradise  for  such  little  nameless  outcast  child- 
souls!  But  I  suppose  she  is  too  high  in  heaven,  and 
too  far  from  the  gates  to  hear  the  plaintive  cries  of 
such  abandoned  little  ones.  Or  perhaps  God,  who  was 
so  much  pleased  with  her  for  deserting  her  own  little 
children,  would  not  allow  it.     I  suppose  the  saints  in 


ELSfc's  STORY.  29 

heaven  who  have  been  mothers,  or  even  elder  sisters 
like  me,  leave  their  mother's  hearts  on  earth,  and  that 
in  paradise  they  are  all  monks  and  nuns  like  Aunt 
Agnes  and  Father  Christopher. 

Next  to  that  little  nameless  one  came  the  twin  girls 
Chriemhild  (named  after  our  grandmother),  and  Atlantis, 
so  christened  by  our  father  on  account  of  the  discovery 
of  the  great  world  beyond  the  sea  which  he  had  so 
often  thought  of,  and  which  the  great  admiral  Chris- 
topher Columbus  accomplished  about  that  time.  Then 
the  twin  boys  Boniface  Pollux  and  Christopher  Castor; 
their  names  being  a  compromise  between  our  father, 
who  was  struck  with  some  remarkable  conjunction  of 
their  stars  at  their  birth,  and  my  mother,  who  thought 
it  only  right  to  counterbalance  such  Pagan  appellations 
with  names  written  in  heaven.  Then  another  boy, 
who  only  lived  a  few  weeks ;  and  then  the  present 
baby,  Thekla,  who  is  the  plaything  and  darling  of 
us  all. 


These  are  nearly  all  the  people  I  know  well;  except, 
indeed,  Martin  Luther,  the  miner's  son,  to  whom  Aunt 
Ursula  Cotta  has  been  so  kind.  He  is  dear  to  us  all 
as  one  of  our  own  family.  He  is  about  the  same  age 
as  Fritz,  who  thinks  there  is  no  one  like  him.  And 
he  has  such  a  voice,  and  is  so  religious,  and  yet  so 
merry  withal;  at  least  at  times.  It  was  his  voice  and 
his  devout  ways  which  first  drew  Aunt  Ursula's  atten- 
tion to  him.  She  had  seen  him  often  at  the  daily 
prayers  at  church.  He  used  to  sing  as  a  chorister  with 
the  boys  of  the  Latin  school  of  the  parish  of  St.  George, 
where  Fritz  and  he  studied.     The  ringing  tones  of  his 


00  CHRONICLES   OF  THE   SCHONBERG-COTTA  FAMILY. 

voice,  so  clear  and  true,  often  attracted  Aunt  Ursula's 
attention;  and  he  always  seemed  so  devout.  But  we 
knew  little  about  him.  He  was  very  poor,  and  had  a 
pinched,  half-starved  look  when  first  we  noticed  him. 
Often  I  have  seen  him  on  the  cold  winter  evenings 
singing  about  the  streets  for  alms,  and  thankfully  re- 
ceiving a  few  pieces  of  broken  bread  and  meat  at  the 
doors  of  the  citizens;  for  he  was  never  a  bold  and  im- 
pudent beggar  as  some  of  the  scholars  are.  Our 
acquaintance  with  him,  however,  began  one  day  which 

1  remember  well.  I  was  at  Aunt  Ursula's  house,  which 
is  in  George  Street,  near  the  church  and  school.  I  had 
watched  the  choir  of  boys  singing  from  door  to  door 
through  the  street.  No  one  had  given  them  anything: 
they  looked  disappointed  and  hungry.  At  last  they 
stopped  before  the  window  where  Aunt  Ursula  and  I 
were  sitting  with  her  little  boy.  That  clear,  high, 
ringing  voice  was  there  again.  Aunt  Ursula  went  to 
the  door  and  called  Martin  in,  and  then  she  went  her- 
self to  the  kitchen,  and  after  giving  him  a  good  meal 
himself,  sent  him  away  with  his  wallet  full,  and  told 
him  to  come  again  very  soon.  After  that,  I  suppose 
she  consulted  with  Cousin  Conrad  Cotta,  and  the  result 
was  that  Martin  Luther  became  an  inmate  of  their 
house,  and  has  lived  among  us  familiarly  since  then 
like  one  of  our  own  cousins. 

He  is  wonderfully  changed  since  that  day.  Scarcely 
any  one  would  have  thought  then  what  a  joyous  nature 
his  is.  The  only  thing  in  which  it  seemed  then  to 
flow  out  was  in  his  clear  true  voice.  He  was  subdued 
and  timid  like  a  creature  that  had  been  brought  up 
without  love.  Especially  he  used  to  be  shy  with  young 
maidens,  and  seemed  afraid  to  look  in  a  woman's  face. 


ELSE'S  SSIORY.  31 

1  think  they  must  have  been  very  severe  with  him  at 
home.  Indeed,  he  confessed  to  Fritz  that  he  had  often 
as  a  child  been  beaten  till  the  blood  came  for  trifling 
offences,  such  as  taking  a  nut,  and  that  he  was  afraid 
to  play  in  his  parents'  presence.  And  yet  he  would 
not  hear  a  word  reflecting  on  his  parents.  He  says 
his  mother  is  the  most  pious  woman  in  Mansfeld,  where 
his  family  live,  and  his  father  denies  himself  in  every 
way  to  maintain  and  educate  his  children,  especially 
Martin,  who  is  to  be  the  learned  man  of  the  family. 
His  parents  are  inured  to  hardships  themselves,  and 
believe  it  to  be  the  best  early  discipline  for  boys. 
Certainly  poor  Martin  had  enough  of  hardship  here. 
But  that  may  be  the  fault  of  his  mother's  relations  at 
Eisenach,  who,  they  hoped,  would  have  been  kind  to 
him,  but  who  do  not  seem  to  have  cared  for  him  at 
all.  At  one  time  he  told  Fritz  he  was  so  pinched  and 
discouraged  by  the  extreme  poverty  he  suffered,  that 
he  thought  of  giving  up  study  in  despair,  and  return- 
ing to  Mansfeld  to  work  with  his  father  at  the  smelting 
furnaces,  or  in  the  mines  under  the  mountains.  Yet 
indignant  tears  start  to  his  eyes  if  any  one  ventures  to 
hint  that  his  father  might  have  done  more  for  him. 
He  was  a  poor  digger  in  the  mines,  he  told  Fritz,  and 
often  he  had  seen  his  mother  carrying  fire-wood  on  her 
shoulders  from  the  pine-woods  near  Mansfeld. 

But  it  was  in  the  monastic  schools,  no  doubt,  that 
he  learned  to  be  so  shy  and  grave.  He  had  been  taught 
to  look  on  married  life  as  a  low  and  evil  thing;  and, 
of  course,  we  all  know  it  cannot  be  so  high  and  pure 
as  the  life  in  the  convent.  I  remember  now  his  look 
of  wonder  when  Aunt  Ursula,  who  is  not  fond  of  monks, 
said  to  him  one  day,  "There  is  nothing  on  earth  more 


o2         CHRONICLES   OF   THE   SCHONBERG-COTTA  FAMILY. 

lovely  than  the  love  of  husband  and  wife,  when  it  is 
in  the  fear  of  God." 

In  the  warmth  of  her  bright  and  sunny  heart,  his 
whole  nature  seemed  to  open  like  the  flowers  in  sum- 
mer. And  now  there  is  none  in  all  our  circle  so 
popular  and  sociable  as  he  is.  He  plays  on  the  lute, 
and  sings  as  we  think  no  one  else  can.  And  our  chil- 
dren all  love  him ,  he  tells  them  such  strange ,  beautiful 
stories  about  enchanted  gardens  and  crusaders,  and 
about  his  own  childhood,  among  the  pine-forests  and  the 
mines. 

It  is  from  Martin  Luther,  indeed,  that  I  have  heard 
more  than  from  any  one  else,  except  fijem  our  grand- 
mother, of  the  great  world  beyond  Eisenach.  He  has 
lived  already  in  three  other  towns,  so  that  he  is  quite 
a  traveller,  and  knows  a  great  deal  of  the  world,  al- 
though he  is  not  yet  twenty.  Our  father  has  certainly 
told  us  wonderful  things  about  the  great  islands  beyond 
the  seas  which  the  Admiral  Columbus  discovered,  and 
which  will  one  day,  he  is  sure,  be  found  to  be  only 
the  other  side  of  the  Indies  and  Tokay  and  Araby. 
Already  the  Spaniards  have  found  gold  in  those  islands, 
and  our  father  has  little  doubt  that  they  are  the  Ophir 
from  which  King  Solomon's  ships  brought  the  gold  for 
the  temple.  Also,  he  has  told  us  about  the  strange 
lands  in  the  south,  in  Africa,  where  the  dwarfs  live, 
and  the  black  giants,  and  the  great  hairy  men  who 
climb  the  trees  and  make  nests  there,  and  the  dreadful 
men-eaters,  and  the  people  who  have  their  heads  be- 
tween their  shoulders.  But  we  have  not  yet  met  with 
any  one  who  has  seen  all  those  wonders,  so  that  Martin 
Luther  and  our  grandmother  are  the  greatest  travellers 
Fritz  and  I  are  acquainted  with. 


else's  story.  33 

Martin  was  born  at  Eisleben.  His  mother's  is  a 
burgher  family.  Three  of  her  brothers  live  here  at 
Eisenach,  and  here  she  was  married.  But  his  father 
came  of  a  peasant  race.  His  grandfather  had  a  little 
farm  of  his  own  at  Mokra,  among  the  Thuringian  pine- 
forests;  but  Martin's  father  was  the  second  son;  their 
little  property  went  to  the  eldest,  and  he  became  a 
miner,  went  to  Eisleben,  and  then  settled  at  Mansfeld, 
near  the  Hartz  mountains,  where  the  silver  and  copper 
lie  buried  in  the  earth. 

At  Mansfeld  Martin  lived  until  he  was  thirteen. 
I  should  like  to  see  the  place.  It  must  be  so  strange 
to  watch  the  great  furnaces,  where  they  fuse  the  copper 
and  smelt  the  precious  silver,  gleaming  through  the 
pine-woods,  for  they  burn  all  through  the  night  in  the 
clearings  of  the  forest.  When  Martin  was  a  little  boy 
he  may  have  watched  by  them  with  his  father,  who 
now  has  furnaces  and  a  foundry  of  his  own.  Then 
there  are  the  deep  pits  under  the  hills,  out  of  which 
come  from  time  to  time  troops  of  grim-looking  miners. 
Martin  is  fond  of  the  miners;  they  are  such  a  brave 
and  hardy  race,  and  they  have  fine  bold  songs  and 
choruses  of  their  own  which  he  can  sing,  and  wild 
original  pastimes.  Chess  is  a  favourite  game  with 
them.  They  are  thoughtful  too,  as  men  may  well  be 
who  dive  into  the  secrets  of  the  earth.  Martin,  when 
a  boy,  has  often  gone  into  the  dark,  mysterious  pits 
and  winding  caverns  with  them,  and  seen  the  veins  of 
precious  ore.  He  has  also  often  seen  foreigners  of 
various  nations.  They  come  from  all  parts  of  the 
world  to  Mansfeld  for  the  silver,  —  from  Bavaria  and 
Switzerland,  and  even  from  the  beautiful  Venice,  whicli 
is  a  city  of  palaces,   where  the  streets  are  canals  filled 

Schonhtrg-Coiti  Family.   I.  '6 


34        CHRONICLES  OP  THE  SCHONBEftG-COTTA  FAMILY. 

by  the  blue  sea,  and  instead  of  waggons  they  use 
boats,  from  which  people  land  on  the  marble  steps  of 
the  palaces.  All  these  things  Martin  has  heard  described 
by  those  who  have  really  seen  them,  besides  what  he 
has  seen  himself.  His  father  also  frequently  used  to 
have  the  schoolmasters  and  learned  men  at  his  house, 
that  his  sons  might  profit  by  their  wise  conversation. 
But  I  doubt  if  he  can  have  enjoyed  this  so  much.  It 
must  have  been  difficult  to  forget  the  rod  with  which 
once  he  was  beaten  fourteen  times  in  one  morning,  so 
as  to  feel  sufficiently  at  ease  to  enjoy  their  conversa- 
tion. Old  Count  Gunther  of  Mansfeld  thinks  much  of 
Martin's  father,  and  often  used  to  send  for  him  to  con- 
sult him  about  the  mines. 

Their  house  at  Mansfeld  stood  at  some  distance 
from  the  school-house,  which  was  on  the  hill,  so  that, 
when  he  was  little,  an  older  boy  used  to  be  kind  to 
him,  and  carry  him  in  his  arms  to  school.  I  daresay 
that  was  in  winter,  when  his  little  feet  were  swollen 
with  chilblains,  and  his  poor  mother  used  to  go  up  to 
the  woods  to  gather  faggots  for  the  hearth. 

His  mother  must  be  a  very  good  and  holy  woman, 
but  not,  I  fancy,  quite  like  our  mother;  rather  more 
like  Aunt  Agnes.  I  think  I  should  have  been  rather 
afraid  of  her.  Martin  says  she  is  very  religious.  He 
honours  and  loves  her  very  much,  although  she  was 
very  strict  with  him,  and  once,  he  told  Fritz,  beat 
him ,  for  taking  a  nut  from  their  stores ,  until  the  blood 
came.  She  must  be  a  brave,  truthful  woman,  who 
would  not  spare  herself  or  others ;  but  I  think  I  should 
have  felt  more  at  home  with  his  father,  who  used  so 
often  to  kneel  beside  Martin's  bed  at  night,  and  pray 
God  to  make  him  a  good  and  useful   man.     Martin's 


else's  story.  35 

father,  however,  does  not  seem  so  fond  of  the  monks 
and  nuns,  and  is  therefore,  I  suppose,  not  so  religious 
as  his  mother  is.  He  does  not  at  all  wish  Martin  to 
become  a  priest  or  a  monk,  but  to  be  a  great  lawyer, 
or  doctor,  or  professor  at  some  university. 

Mansfeld,  however,  is  a  very  holy  place.  There 
are  many  monasteries  and  nunneries  there,  and  in  one 
of  them  two  of  the  countesses  were  nuns.  There  is 
also  a  castle  there ,  and  our  St.  Elizabeth  worked  miracles 
there  as  well  as  here.  The  devil  also  is  not  idle  at 
Mansfeld.  A  wicked  old  witch  lived  close  to  Martin's 
house,  and  used  to  frighten  and  distress  his  mother 
much ,  bewitching  the  children  so  that  they  nearly  cried 
themselves  to  death.  Once  even,  it  is  said,  the  devil 
himself  got  up  into  the  pulpit,  and  preached,  of  course 
in  disguise.  But  in  all  the  legends  it  is  the  same. 
The  devil  never  seems  so  busy  as  where  the  saints  are, 
which  is  another  reason  why  I  feel  how  difficult  it 
would  be  to  be  religious. 

Martin  had  a  sweet  voice,  and  loved  music  as  a 
child,  and  he  used  often  to  sing  at  people's  doors  as 
he  did  here.  Once,  at  Christmas  time,  he  was  singing- 
carols  from  village  to  village  among  the  woods  with 
other  boys,  when  a  peasant  came  to  the  door  of  his 
hut,  where  they  were  singing,  and  said  in  a  loud  gruff 
voice,  " Where  are  you,  boys?"  The  children  were 
so  frightened  that  they  scampered  away  as  fast  as  they 
could,  and  only  found  out  afterwards  that  the  man 
with  a  rough  voice  had  a  kind  heart,  and  had  brought 
them  out  some  sausages.  Poor  Martin  was  used  to 
blows  in  those  days,  and  had  good  reason  to  dread 
them.  It  must  have  been  pleasant,  however,  to  hear 
the  boys'   voices    carolling    through  the   woods   about 

3* 


36        CHRONICLES  OP  THE   SCHONBERG-COTTA  FAMILY. 

Jesus  born  at  Bethlehem.  Voices  echo  so  strangely 
among  the  silent  pine-forests. 

When  Martin  was  thirteen  he  left  Mansfeld  and 
went  to  Magdeburg,  where  the  Archbishop  Ernest  lives, 
the  brother  of  our  Elector,  who  has  a  beautiful  palace, 
and  twelve  trumpeters  to  play  to  him  always  when  he 
is  at  dinner.  Magdeburg  must  be  a  magnificent  city, 
very  nearly,  we  think,  as  grand  as  Rome  itself.  There 
is  a  great  cathedral  there,  and  knights  and  princes  and 
many  soldiers,  who  prance  about  the  streets;  and 
tournaments  and  splendid  festivals.  But  our  Martin 
heard  more  than  he  saw  of  all  this.  He  and  John 
Reineck  of  Mansfeld  (a  boy  older  than  himself,  who  is 
one  of  his  greatest  friends),  went  to  the  school  of  the 
Franciscan  Cloister,  and  had  to  spend  their  time  with 
the  monks,  or  sing  about  the  streets  for  bread,  or  in 
the  church-yard  when  the  Franciscans  in  their  grey 
robes  went  there  to  fulfil  their  office  of  burying  the 
dead.  But  it  was  not  for  him,  the  miner's  son,  to 
complain,  when,  as  he  says,  he  used  to  see  a  Prince  of 
Anhalt  going  about  the  streets  in  a  cowl  begging  bread, 
with  a  sack  on  his  shoulders  like  a  beast  of  burden, 
insomuch  that  he  was  bowed  to  the  ground.  The  poor 
prince,  Martin  said,  had  fasted  and  watched  and 
mortified  his  flesh  until  he  looked  like  an  image  of 
death,  with  only  skin  and  bones.  Indeed,  shortly  after 
he  died. 

At  Magdeburg,  also,  Martin  saw  the  picture  of 
which  he  has  often  told  us.  "A  great  ship  was  painted, 
meant  to  signify  the  Church,  wherein  there  was  no 
layman,  not  even  a  king  or  prince.  There  were  none 
but  the  pope  with  his  cardinals  and  bishops  in  the 
prow,   with  the  Holy  Ghost  hovering  over   them,   the 


else's  story.  37 

priests  and  monks  with  their  oars  at  the  side;  and  thus 
they  were  sailing  on  heavenward.  The  laymen  were 
swimming  along  in  the  water  around  the  ship.  Some 
of  them  were  drowning;  some  were  drawing  themselves 
up  to  the  ship  by  means  of  ropes,  which  the  monks, 
moved  with  pity,  and  making  over  their  own  good 
works,  did  cast  out  to  them  to  keep  them  from  drown- 
ing, and  to  enable  them  to  cleave  to  the  vessel  and  to 
go  with  the  others  to  heaven.  There  was  no  pope,  nor 
cardinal,  nor  bishop,  nor  priest,  nor  monk  in  the  water, 
but  laymen  only." 

It  must  have  been  a  very  dreadful  picture,  and 
enough  to  make  any  one  afraid  of  not  being  religious, 
or  else  to  make  one  feel  how  useless  it  is  for  any  one, 
except  the  monks  and  nuns,  to  try  to  be  religious  at 
all.  Because  however  little  merit  any  one  had  acquired, 
some  kind  monk  might  still  be  found  to  throw  a  rope 
out  of  the  ship  and  help  him  in;  and,  however  many 
good  works  any  layman  might  do,  they  would  be  of 
no  avail  to  help  him  out  of  the  flood,  or  even  to  keep 
him  from  drowning,  unless  he  had  some  friend  in  a 
cloister. 

I  said  Martin  was  merry;  and  so  he  is,  with  the 
children,  or  when  he  is  cheered  with  music  or  singing. 
And  yet,  on  the  whole,  I  think  he  is  rather  grave,  and 
often  he  looks  very  thoughtful,  and  even  melancholy. 
His  merriment  does  not  seem  to  be  so  much  from  care- 
lessness as  from  earnestness  of  heart,  so  that  whether 
he  is  telling  a  story  to  the  little  ones,  or  singing  a  lively 
song,  his  whole  heart  is  in  it,  — in  his  play  as  well  as 
in  his  work. 

In  his  studies  Fritz  says  there  is  no  one  at 
Eisenach  who  can  come  near  him,  whether  in  reciting, 


38        CHRONICLES   OP   THE   SCHONBERG-COTTA  FAMILY. 

or  writing  prose  or  verse,  or  translating,  or  churcb 
music. 

Master  Trebonius,  the  head  of  St.  George's  school, 
is  a  very  learned  man  and  very  polite.  He  takes  off 
his  hat,  Fritz  says,  and  bows  to  his  scholars  when  he 
enters  the  school,  for  he  says  that  "among  these  boys 
are  future  burgomasters,  chancellors,  doctors,  and 
magistrates."  This  must  be  very  different  from  the 
masters  at  Mansfeld.  Master  Trebonius  thinks  very  much 
of  Martin.  I  wonder  if  he  and  Fritz  will  be  burgomasters 
or  doctors  one  day. 

Martin  is  certainly  very  religious  for  a  boy,  and  so  is 
Fritz.  They  attend  mass  very  regularly,  and  confession, 
and  keep  the  fasts. 

From  what  I  have  heard  Martin  say,  however,  I 
think  he  is  as  much  afraid  of  God  and  Christ  and  the 
dreadful  day  of  wrath  and  judgment  as  I  am.  Indeed 
I  am  sure  he  feels,  as  every  one  must,  there  would  be 
no  hope  for  us  were  it  not  for  the  Blessed  Mother  of 
God  who  may  remind  her  Son  how  she  nursed  and 
cared  for  him,  and  move  him  to  have  some  pity. 

But  Martin  has  been  at  the  University  of  Erfurt 
nearly  two  years,  and  Fritz  has  now  left  us  to  study 
there  with  him;  and  we  shall  have  no  more  music, 
and  the  children  no  more  stories  until  no  one  knows 
when. 

These  are  the  people  I  know.  I  have  nothing  else 
to  say  except  about  the  things  I  possess,  and  the  place 
we  live  in. 

The  things  are  easily  described.  I  have  a  silver 
reliquary,  with  a  lock  of  the  hair  of  St.  Elizabeth  in 
it.      That   is   my   greatest  treasure.      I  have  a  black 


ELSE'S  STORY.  39 

rosary  with  a  large  iron  cross  which  Aunt  Agnes  gave 
me.  I  have  a  missal,  and  part  of  a  volume  of  the 
Nibelungen  Lied;  and  besides  my  every-day  dress,  a 
black  taffetas  jacket  and  a  crimson  stuff  petticoat,  and 
two  gold  ear-rings,  and  a  silver  chain  for  holidays, 
which  Aunt  Ursula  gave  me.  Fritz  and  I  between  us 
have  also  a  copy  of  some  old  Latin  hymns,  with 
woodcuts,  printed  at  Niirnberg.  And  in  the  garden  I 
have  two  rose -bushes;  and  I  have  a  wooden  crucifix 
carved  in  Rome  out  of  wood  which  came  from  Bethlehem, 
and  in  a  leather  purse  one  gulden  my  godmother  gave 
me  at  my  christening;  and  that  is  all. 

The  place  we  live  in  is  Eisenach,  and  I  think  it  a 
beautiful  place.  But  never  having  seen  any  other 
town,  perhaps  I  cannot  very  well  judge.  There  are 
nine  monasteries  and  nunneries  here,  many  of  them 
founded  by  St.  Elizabeth.  And  there  are  I  do  not 
know  how  many  priests.  In  the  churches  are  some 
beautiful  pictures  of  the  sufferings  and  glory  of  the 
saints;  and  painted  windows,  and  on  the  altars  gor- 
geous gold  and  silver  plate,  and  a  great  many  wonder- 
ful relics  which  we  go  to  adore  on  the  great  saints' 
days. 

The  town  is  in  a  valley,  and  high  above  the  houses 
rises  the  hill  on  which  stands  the  Wartburg,  the  castle 
where  St.  Elizabeth  lived.  I  went  inside  it  once  with 
our  father  to  take  some  books  to  the  Elector.  The 
rooms  were  beautifully  furnished  with  carpets  and 
velvet-covered  chairs.  A  lady  dressed  in  silk  and 
jewels,  like  St.  Elizabeth  in  the  pictures,  gave  me 
sweetmeats.  But  the  castle  seemed  to  me  dark  and 
gloomy.  I  wondered  which  was  the  room  in  which 
the  proud  mother  of  the  Landgrave  lived,  who  was  so 


40        CHRONICLES   OF  THE  SCHONBERG-COXXA  FAMILY. 

discourteous  to  St.  Elizabeth  when  she  came  a  young 
maiden  from  her  royal  home  far  away  in  Hungary, 
and  which  was  the  cold  wall  against  which  she  pressed 
her  burning  brow,  when  she  rushed  through  the  castle 
in  despair  on  hearing  suddenly  of  the  death  of  her 
husband. 

I  was  glad  to  escape  into  the  free  forest  again,  for 
all  around  the  castle,  and  over  all  the  hills,  as  far  as 
we  can  see  around  Eisenach,  it  is  forest.  The  tall 
dark  pine  woods  clothe  the  hills;  but  in  the  valleys 
the  meadows  are  very  green  beside  the  streams.  It  is 
better  in  the  valleys  among  the  wild  flowers  than  in 
that  stern  old  castle,  and  I  did  not  wonder  so  much 
after  being  there  that  St.  Elizabeth  built  herself  a  hut 
in  a  lowly  valley  among  the  woods,  and  preferred  to 
live  and  die  there. 

It  is  beautiful  in  summer  in  the  meadows,  at  the 
edge  of  the  pine  woods,  when  the  sun  brings  out  the 
delicious  aromatic  perfume  of  the  pines,  and  the  birds 
sing,  and  the  rooks  caw.  I  like  it  better  than  the  in- 
cense in  St.  George's  Church,  and  almost  better  than 
the  singing  of  the  choir,  and  certainly  better  than  the 
sermons  which  are  so  often  about  the  dreadful  fires 
and  the  judgment-day,  or  the  confessional  where  they 
give  us  such  hard  penances.  The  lambs,  and  the 
birds,  and  even  the  insects,  seem  so  happy,  each  with 
its  own  little  bleat,  or  warble,  or  coo,  or  buzz  of  content. 

It  almost  seems  then  as  if  Mary,  the  dear  Mother 
of  God,  were  governing  the  world  instead  of  Christ, 
the  Judge,  or  the  Almighty  with  the  thunders.  Every 
creature  seems  so  blithe  and  so  tenderly  cared  for,  I 
cannot  help  feeling  better  there  than  at  church.  But 
that  is  because  I  have  so  little  religion. 


friedrich's  STORY.  4:1 


II. 

EXTRACTS  FROM  FRIEDRICH's   CHRONICLE. 

Erfurt,  1503. 

At  last  I  stand  on  the  threshold  of  the  world  I 
have  so  long  desired  to  enter.  Else's  world  is  mine 
no  longer;  and  yet,  never  until  this  week  did  I  feel 
how  dear  that  little  home-world  is  to  me.  Indeed, 
Heaven  forbid  I  should  have  left  it  finally.  I  look 
forward  to  returning  to  it  again,  never  more,  however, 
as  a  burden  on  our  parents,  but  as  their  stay  and  sup- 
port, to  set  our  mother  free  from  the  cares  which  are 
slowly  eating  her  precious  life  away,  to  set  our  father 
free  to  pursue  his  great  projects,  and  to  make  our 
little  Else  as  much  a  lady  as  any  of  the  noble  baron- 
esses our  grandmother  tells  us  of.  Although,  indeed, 
as  it  is,  when  she  walks  beside  me  to  church  on  holi- 
days, in  her  crimson  dress,  with  her  round,  neat,  little 
figure  in  the  black  jacket  with  the  white  stomacher, 
and  the  silver  chains,  her  fair  hair  so  neatly  braided, 
and  her  blue  eyes  so  full  of  sunshine,  —  who  can 
look  better  than  Else?  And  I  can  see  I  am  not  the 
only  one  in  Eisenach  who  thinks  so.  I  would  only 
wish  to  make  all  the  days  holidays  for  her,  and  that 
it  should  not  be  necessary  when  the  festival  is  over  for 
my  little  sister  to  lay  aside  all  her  finery  so  carefully 
in  the  great  chest,  and  put  on  her  Aschputtel  garments 
again,  so  that  if  the  fairy  prince  we  used  to  talk  of 
were  to  come,  he  would  scarcely  recognise  the  fair 
little  princess  he  had  seen  at  church.    And  yet  no  fairy 


42        CHRONICLES  OF  THE  SCHONBERG-COTTA  FAMILY. 

prince  need  be  ashamed  of  our  Else,  even  in  her  work- 
ing, everyday  clothes;  —  he  certainly  would  not  be 
the  right  one  if  he  were.  In  the  twilight,  when  the 
day's  work  is  done,  and  the  children  are  asleep,  and 
she  comes  and  sits  beside  me  with  her  knitting  in  the 
lumber-room  or  under  the  pear-tree  in  the  garden, 
what  princess  could  look  fresher  or  neater  than  Else, 
with  her  smooth  fair  hair  braided  like  a  coronet?  Who 
would  think  that  she  had  been  toiling  all  day,  cooking, 
washing,  nursing  the  children.  Except,  indeed,  be- 
cause of  the  healthy  colour  her  active  life  gives  her 
face,  and  for  that  sweet  low  voice  of  hers,  which  I 
think  women  learn  best  by  the  cradles  of  little 
children. 

I  suppose  it  is  because  I  have  never  yet  seen  any 
maiden  to  be  compared  to  our  Else  that  I  have  not 
yet  fallen  in  love.  And,  nevertheless,  it  is  not  of 
such  a  face  as  Else's  I  dream,  when  dreams  come,  or 
even  exactly  such  as  my  mother's.  My  mother's  eyes 
are  dimmed  with  many  cares;  is  it  not  that  very  worn 
and  faded  brow  that  makes  her  sacred  to  me?  More 
sacred  than  any  saintly  halo!  And  Else,  good,  prac- 
tical little  Els&,  she  is  a  dear  household  fairy,  but  the 
face  I  dream  of  has  another  look  in  it.  Else's  eyes 
are  good,  as  she  says,  for  seeing  and  helping;  and 
sweet,  indeed,  they  are  for  loving  —  dear,  kind,  true 
eyes.  But  the  eyes  I  dream  of  have  another  look,  a 
fire  like  our  grandmother's ,  as  if  from  a  southern  sun ; 
dim,  dreamy,  far-seeing  glances,  burning  into  hearts, 
like  the  ladies  in  the  romances,  and  yet  piercing  into 
heaven,  like  St.  Cecilia's  when  she  stands  entranced 
by  her  organ.  She  should  be  a  saint,  at  whose  feet  I 
might  sit  and  look  through  her  pure  heart  into  heaveD, 


friedrtch's  story.  43 

and  yet  she  should  love  me  wholly,  passionately,  fear- 
lessly, devotedly,  as  if  her  heaven  were  all  in  my  love. 
My  love!  and  who  am  I  that  I  should  have  such 
dreams?  A  poor  burgher  lad  of  Eisenach,  a  penniless 
student  of  a  week's  standing  at  Erfurt!  The  eldest 
son  of  a  large  destitute  family,  who  must  not  dare  to 
think  of  loving  the  most  perfect  maiden  in  the  world, 
when  I  meet  her,  until  I  have  rescued  a  father, 
mother,  and  six  brothers  and  sisters  from  the  jaws  of 
biting  poverty.  And  even  in  a  dream  it  seems  almost 
a  treachery  to  put  any  creature  above  Else.  I  fancy 
I  see  her  kind  blue  eyes  filling  with  reproachful  tears. 
For  there  is  no  doubt  that  in  Else's  heart  I  have  no 
rival,  even  in  a  dream.     Poor  loving  little  Else! 

Yes,  she  must  be  rescued  from  the  pressure  of  those 
daily  fretting  cares  of  penury  and  hope  deferred,  which 
have  made  our  mother  old  so  early.  If  I  had  been  in 
the  father's  place,  I  could  never  have  borne  to  see 
winter  creeping  so  soon  over  the  summer  of  her  life. 
But  he  does  not  see  it.  Or  if  for  a  moment  her  pale 
face  and  the  grey  hairs  which  begin  to  come  seem  to 
trouble  him,  he  kisses  her  forehead,  and  says, 

"Little  mother,  it  will  soon  be  over;  there  is  no- 
thing wanting  now  but  the  last  link  to  make  this  last 
invention  perfect,  and  then  — " 

And  then  he  goes  into  his  printing-room;  but  to 
this  day  the  missing  link  has  never  been  found.  Else 
and  our  mother,  however,  always  believe  it  will  turn 
up  some  day.  Our  grandmother  has  doubts.  And  I 
have  scarcely  any  hope  at  all,  although,  for  all  the 
world,  I  would  not  breathe  this  to  any  one  at  home. 
To  me  that  laboratory  of  my  father's,  with  its  furnace, 
its   models,   its   strange  machines,  is  the  most  melan- 


44        CHRONICLES   OF  THE  SCHONBERG-COTTA  FAMILY. 

choly  place  in  the  world.  It  is  like  a  haunted  chamber, 
—  haunted  with  the  helpless,  nameless  ghosts  of  in- 
fants that  have  died  at  their  birth,  —  the  ghosts  of 
vain  and  fruitless  projects;  like  the  ruins  of  a  city  that 
some  earthquake  had  destroyed  before  it  was  finished, 
ruined  palaces  that  were  never  roofed,  ruined  houses 
that  were  never  inhabited,  ruined  churches  that  were 
never  worshipped  in.  The  saints  forbid  that  my  life 
should  be  like  that!  and  yet  what  it  is  which  has  made 
him  so  unsuccessful,  I  can  never  exactly  make  out. 
He  is  no  dreamer.  He  is  no  idler.  He  does  not  sit 
lazily  down  with  folded  arms  and  imagine  his  projects. 
He  makes  his  calculations  with  the  most  laborious  ac- 
curacy, he  consults  all  the  learned  men  and  books  he 
has  access  to.  He  weighs,  and  measures,  and  con- 
structs the  neatest  models  possible.  His  room  is  a 
museum  of  exquisite  models,  which  seem  as  if  they 
must  answer,  and  yet  never  do.  The  professors,  and 
even  the  Elector's  secretary,  who  has  come  more  than 
once  to  consult  him,  have  told  me  he  is  a  man  of  re- 
markable genius. 

What  can  it  be,  then,  that  makes  his  life  such  a 
failure?  I  cannot  think;  unless  it  is  that  other  great 
inventors  and  discoverers  seem  to  have  made  their  dis- 
coveries and  inventions  as  it  were  by  the  way,  in  the 
course  of  their  everyday  life.  As  a  seaman  sails  on 
his  appointed  voyage  to  some  definite  port,  he  notices 
drift-wood  or  weeds  which  must  have  come  from  un- 
known lands  beyond  the  seas.  As  he  sails  in  his  call- 
ing from  port  to  port,  the  thought  is  always  in  his 
mind;  everything  he  hears  groups  itself  naturally 
around  this  thought,  he  observes  the  winds  and  cur- 
rents; he  collects  information  from  mariners  who  have 


friedrich's  story.  45 

been  driven  out  of  their  course,  in  the  direction  where 
he  believes  this  unknown  land  to  lie.  And  at  length 
he  persuades  some  prince  tbat  his  belief  is  no  mere 
dream,  and  like  the  great  admiral  Christopher  Colum- 
bus, he  ventures  across  the  trackless  unknown  Atlantic 
and  discovers  the  Western  Indies.  But  before  he  was 
a  discoverer,  he  was  a  mariner. 

Or  some  engraver  of  woodcuts  thinks  of  applying 
his  carved  blocks  to  letters,  and  the  printing-press  is 
invented.  But  it  is  in  his  calling.  He  has  not  gone 
out  of  his  way  to  hunt  for  inventions.  He  has  found 
them  in  his  path,  the  path  of  his  daily  calling.  It 
seems  to  me  people  do  not  become  great,  do  not  be- 
come discoverers  and  inventors  by  trying  to  be  so,  but 
by  determining  to  do  in  the  very  best  way  what  they 
have  to  do.  Thus  improvements  suggest  themselves, 
one  by  one,  step  by  step;  each  improvement  is  tested 
as  it  is  made  by  practical  use,  until  at  length  the 
happy  thought  comes,  not  like  an  elf  from  the  wild 
forests,  but  like  an  angel  on  the  daily  path;  and  the 
little  improvements  become  the  great  invention.  There 
is  another  great  advantage,  moreover,  in  this  method 
over  our  father's.  If  the  invention  never  comes,  at  all 
events  we  have  the  improvements,  which  are  worth 
something.  Every  one  cannot  invent  the  printing-press 
or  discover  the  New  Indies;  but  every  engraver  may 
make  his  engravings  a  little  better,  and  every  mariner 
may  explore  a  little  further  than  his  predecessors. 

Yet  it  seems  almost  like  treason  to  write  thus  of 
our  father.  What  would  Else  or  our  mother  think, 
who  believe  there  is  nothing  but  accident  or  the  blind- 
ness of  mankind  between  us  and  greatness?  Not  that 
they  have  learned  to  think  thus  from  our  father.  Never 


4G        CHRONICLES  OF  THE  SCHONBERG-COTTA  FAMILY. 

in  my  life  did  I  hear  him  say  a  grudging  or  depreciat- 
ing word  of  any  of  those  who  have  most  succeeded 
where  he  has  failed.  He  seems  to  look  on  all  such 
men  as  part  of  a  great  brotherhood  and  to  rejoice  in 
another  man  hitting  the  point  which  he  missed,  just  as 
he  would  rejoice  in  himself  succeeding  in  something 
to-day  which  he  failed  in  yesterday.  It  is  this  noble- 
ness of  character  which  makes  me  reverence  him  more 
than  any  mere  successes  could.  It  is  because  I  fear, 
that  in  a  life  of  such  disappointment  my  character 
would  not  prove  so  generous,  but  that  failure  would 
sour  my  temper  and  penury  degrade  my  spirit  as  they 
never  have  his,  that  I  have  ventured  to  search  for  the 
rocks  on  which  he  made  shipwreck,  in  order  to  avoid 
them.  All  men  cannot  return  wrecked,  and  tattered, 
and  destitute  from  an  unsuccessful  voyage,  with  a 
heart  as  hopeful,  a  temper  as  generous,  a  spirit  as  free 
from  envy  and  detraction,  as  if  they  brought  the 
golden  fleece  with  them.  Our  father  does  this  again 
and  again-,  and  therefore  I  trust  his  argosies  are  laid 
up  for  him  as  for  those  who  follow  the  rules  of  evan- 
gelical perfection,  where  neither  moth  nor  rust  can 
corrupt.  I  could  not.  I  would  never  return  until  I 
could  bring  what  I  had  sought,  or  I  should  return  a 
miserable  man,  shipwrecked  in  heart  as  well  as  in  for- 
tune. And  therefore  I  must  examine  my  charts,  and 
choose  my  port  and  my  vessel  carefully,  before  I  sail. 
All  these  thoughts  came  into  my  mind  as  I  stood 
on  the  last  height  of  the  forest,  from  which  I  could 
look  back  on  Eisenach,  nestling  in  the  valley  under 
the  shadow  of  the  Wartburg.  May  the  dear  mother 
of  God,  St.  Elizabeth,  and  all  the  saints,  defend  it 
evermore ! 


friedrich's  story.  47 

But  there  was  not  much  time  to  linger  for  a  last 
view  of  Eisenach.  The  winter  days  were  short;  some 
snow  had  fallen  in  the  previous  night.  The  roofs  of 
the  houses  in  Eisenach  were  white  with  it,  and  the 
carvings  of  spire  and  tower  seemed  inlaid  with  ala- 
baster. A  thin  covering  lay  on  the  meadows  and  hill- 
sides, and  light  feather-work  frosted  the  pines.  I  had 
nearly  thirty  miles  to  walk  through  forest  and  plain 
before  I  reached  Erfurt.  The  day  was  as  bright  and 
the  air  as  light  as  my  heart.  The  shadows  of  the  pines 
lay  across  the  frozen  snow,  over  which  my  feet  crunched 
cheerily.  In  the  clearings,  the  outline  of  the  black 
twigs  were  pencilled  dark  and  clear  against  the  light 
blue  of  the  winter  sky.  Every  outline  was  clear,  and 
crisp,  and  definite,  as  I  resolved  my  own  aims  in  life 
should  be.  I  knew  my  purposes  were  pure  and  high, 
and  I  felt  as  if  Heaven  must  prosper  me. 

But  as  the  day  wore  on,  I  began  to  wonder  when 
the  forest  would  end,  until,  as  the  sun  sank  lower  and 
lower,  I  feared  I  must  have  missed  my  way,  and  at 
last,  as  I  climbed  a  height  to  make  a  survey,  to  my 
dismay  it  was  too  evident  I  had  taken  the  wrong  turn- 
ing in  the  snow.  Wide  reaches  of  the  forest  lay  all 
around  me,  one  pine-covered  hill  folding  over  another; 
and  only  in  one  distant  opening  could  I  get  a  glimpse 
of  the  level  land  beyond,  where  I  knew  Erfurt  must 
lie.  The  daylight  was  fast  departing;  my  wallet  was 
empty.  I  knew  there  were  villages  hidden  in  the  val- 
leys here  and  there;  but  not  a  wreath  of  smoke  could 
I  see,  nor  any  sign  of  man,  except  here  and  there 
fagots  piled  in  some  recent  clearing.  Towards  one  of 
these  clearings  I  directed  my  steps,  intending  to  follow 
the  wood-cutters'  track,   which   I  thought   would  pro- 


48        CHRONICLES   OF  THE  SCHONBERG-COTTA  FAMILY. 

bably  lead  me  to  the  hut  of  some  charcoal  burner, 
where  I  might  find  fire  and  shelter.  Before  I  reached 
this  spot,  however,  night  had  set  in.  The  snow  began 
to  fall  again,  and  it  seemed  too  great  a  risk  to  leave 
the  broader  path  to  follow  any  unknown  track.  I  re- 
solved, therefore,  to  make  the  best  of  my  circum- 
stances. They  were  not  unendurable.  I  had  a  flint 
and  tinder,  and  gathering  some  dry  wood  and  twigs,  I 
contrived  with  some  difficulty  to  light  a  fire.  Cold 
and  hungry  I  certainly  was,  but  for  this  I  cared  little. 
It  was  only  an  extra  fast,  and  it  seemed  to  me  quite 
natural  that  my  journey  of  life  should  commence  with 
difficulty  and  danger.  It  was  always  so  in  legend  of 
the  saints,  romance,  or  elfin  tale,  or  when  anything 
great  was  to  be  done. 

But  in  the  night,  as  the  wind  howled  through  the 
countless  stems  of  the  pines,  not  with  the  soft  varieties 
of  sound  it  makes  amidst  the  summer  oak-woods,  but 
with  a  long  monotonous  wail  like  a  dirge,  a  tumult 
awoke  in  my  heart  such  as  I  had  never  known  before. 
I  knew  these  forests  were  infested  by  robber-bands, 
and  I  could  bear  in  the  distance  the  baying  and 
howling  of  the  wolves;  but  it  was  not  fear  which  tossed 
my  thoughts  so  wildly  to  and  fro,  at  least  not  fear  of 
bodily  harm.  I  thought  of  all  the  stories  of  wild 
huntsmen,  of  wretched  guilty  men,  hunted  by  packs  of 
fiends;  and  the  stories  which  had  excited  a  wild  delight 
in  Els&  and  me,  as  our  grandmother  told  them  by  the 
fire  at  home,  now  seemed  to  freeze  my  soul  with  hor- 
ror. For  was  not  I  a  guilty  creature,  and  were  not 
the  devils  indeed  too  really  around  me?  —  and  what 
was  to  prevent  their  possessing  me?  Who  in  all  the 
universe  was  on  my  side?     Could  I  look  up  with  con- 


friedrich's  story.  49 

fidence  to  God?  He  loves  only  the  holy.  Or  to  Christ? 
He  is  the  judge;  and  more  terrible  than  any  cries  of 
legions  of  devils  will  it  be  to  the  sinner  to  hear  his 
voice  from  the  awful  snow-white  throne  of  judgment. 
Then,  my  sins  rose  before  me  —  my  neglected  prayers, 
penances  imperfectly  performed,  incomplete  confessions. 
Even  that  morning,  had  I  not  been  full  of  proud  and 
ambitious  thoughts  —  even,  perhaps,  vainly  comparing 
myself  with  my  good  father,  and  picturing  myself  as 
conquering  and  enjoying  all  kinds  of  worldly  delights? 
It  was  true,  it  could  hardly  be  a  sin  to  wish  to  save 
my  family  from  penury  and  care;  but  it  was  certainly 
a  sin  to  be  ambitious  of  worldly  distinction,  as  Father 
Christopher  had  so  often  told  me.  Then,  how  difficult 
to  separate  the  two!  Where  did  duty  end,  and  ambi- 
tion and  pride  begin?  I  determined  to  find  a  confessor 
as  soon  as  I  reached  Erfurt,  if  ever  I  reached  it.  And 
yet,  what  could  even  the  wisest  confessor  do  for  me  in 
such  difficulties?  How  could  I  ever  be  sure  that  I  had 
not  deceived  myself  in  examining  my  motives,  and 
then  deceived  him,  and  thus  obtained  an  absolution  on 
false  pretences,  which  could  avail  me  nothing?  And  if 
this  might  be  so  with  future  confessions,  why  not  with 
all  past  ones? 

The  thought  was  horror  to  me,  and  seemed  to  open 
a  fathomless  abyss  of  misery  yawning  under  my  feet. 
I  could  no  more  discover  a  track  out  of  my  miserable 
perplexities  than  out  of  the  forest. 

For  if  these  apprehensions  had  any  ground,  not 
only  the  sins  I  had  failed  to  confess  were  unpardoned, 
but  the  sins  I  had  confessed  and  obtained  absolution 
for  on  false  grounds.  Thus  it  might  be  that  at  that 
moment  my  soul  stood  utterly  unsheltered,  as  my  body 

Schonberg-Cotia  Family.    I.  4 


bO        CHRONICLES   OF  THE   SCHONBERG-COTTA  FAMILY, 

from  the  snows,  exposed  to  the  wrath  of  God,  the 
judgment  of  Christ,  and  the  exulting  cruelty  of 
devils. 

It  seemed  as  if  only  one  thing  could  save  me,  and 
that  could  never  he  had.  If  I  could  find  an  infallible 
confessor  who  could  see  down  into  the  depth  of  my 
heart,  and  back  into  every  recess  of  my  life,  who  could 
unveil  me  to  myself,  penetrate  all  my  motives,  and  as- 
sign me  the  penances  I  really  deserved,  I  would  travel 
to  the  end  of  the  world  to  find  him.  The  severest 
penances  he  could  assign,  after  searching  the  lives  of 
all  the  holy  Eremites  and  Martyrs,  for  examples  of 
mortification,  it  seemed  to  me  would  be  light  indeed, 
if  I  could  only  be  sure  they  were  the  right  penances 
and  would  be  followed  by  a  true  absolution. 

But  this  it  was,  indeed,  impossible  I  could  ever 
find. 

What  sure  hope  then  could  I  ever  have  of  pardon 
or  remission  of  sins?  What  voice  of  priest  or  monk, 
the  holiest  on  earth,  could  ever  assure  me  I  had  been 
honest  with  myself?  What  absolution  could  ever  give 
me  a  right  to  believe  that  the  baptismal  robes,  soiled 
as  they  told  me  "before  I  had  left  off  my  infant 
socks,"  could  once  more  be  made  white  and  clean? 

Then  for  the  first  time  in  my  life  the  thought 
flashed  on  me,  of  the  monastic  vows,  the  cloister  and 
the  cowl.  I  knew  there  was  a  virtue  in  the  monastic 
profession  which  many  said  was  equal  to  a  second 
baptism.  Could  it  be  possible  that  the  end  of  all  my 
aspirations  might  after  all  be  the  monk's  frock?  What 
then  would  become  of  father  and  mother,  dear  Else, 
and  the  little  ones?  The  thought  of  their  dear  faces 
seemed   for   an    instant    to    drive   away   these  gloomy 


friedrich's  story.  51 

fears,  as  they  say  a  hearth-fire  keeps  off  the  wolves. 
But  then  a  hollow  voice  seemed  to  whisper,  "If  God  is 
against  you,  and  the  saints,  and  your  conscience,  what 
help  can  you  render  your  family  or  any  one  else?" 
The  conflict  seemed  more  than  I  could  bear.  It  was 
so  impossible  to  me  to  make  out  which  suggestions 
were  from  the  devil  and  which  from  God,  and  which 
from  my  own  sinful  heart;  and  yet  it  might  be  the 
unpardonable  sin  to  confound  them.  Wherefore  for 
the  rest  of  the  night  I  tried  not  to  think  at  all,  but 
paced  up  and  down  reciting  the  Ten  Commandments, 
the  Creed,  the  Paternoster,  the  Ave  Maria,  the  Litanies 
of  the  Saints,  and  all  the  collects  and  holy  ejaculations 
I  could  think  of.  By  degrees  this  seemed  to  calm  me, 
especially  the  Creeds  and  the  Paternoster,  whether  be- 
cause these  are  spells  the  fiends  especially  dread,  or 
because  there  is  something  so  comforting  in  the  mere 
words,  "Our  Father,"  and  "the  remission  of  sins,"  I 
do  not  know.     Probably  for  both  reasons. 

And  so  the  morning  dawned,  and  the  low  sun- 
beams slanted  up  through  the  red  stems  of  the  pines-, 
and  I  said  the  Ave  Maria,  and  thought  of  the  sweet 
mother  of  God,  and  was  a  little  cheered. 

But  all  the  next  day  I  could  not  recover  from  the 
terrors  of  that  solitary  night.  A  shadow  seemed  to 
have  fallen  on  my  hopes  and  projects.  How  could  I 
tell  that  all  which  had  seemed  most  holy  to  me  as  an 
object  in  life  might  not  be  temptations  of  the  world, 
the  flesh,  and  the  devil;  and  that  with  all  my  labour- 
ing for  my  dear  ones  at  home,  my  sins  might  not 
bring  on  them  more  troubles  than  all  my  successes 
could  avert? 

As  I  left   the  shadow  of  the  forest,   however,   my 

4* 


52        CHRONICLES   OF  THE  SCHONBERG-COTTA  FAMILY. 

heart  seemed  to  grow  lighter.  I  shall  always  hence- 
forth feel  sure  that  the  wildest  legends  of  the  forests 
may  he  true,  and  that  the  fiends  have  especial  haunts 
among  the  solitary  woods  at  night. 

It  was  pleasant  to  see  the  towers  of  Erfurt' rising 
before  me  on  the  plain. 

I  had  only  one  friend  at  the  University,  but  that 
is  Martin  Luther,  and  he  is  a  host  in  himself  to  me. 
He  is  already  distinguished  among  the  students  here; 
and  the  professors  expect  great  things  of  him. 

He  is  especially  studying  jurisprudence,  because 
his  father  wishes  him  to  be  a  great  lawyer.  This  also 
is  to  be  my  profession,  and  his  counsel,  always  so 
heartily  given,  is  of  the  greatest  iise  to  me. 

His  life  is,  indeed,  changed  since  we  first  knew 
him  at  Eisenach,  when  Aunt  Ursula  took  compassion 
on  him,  a  destitute  scholar,  singing  at  the  doors  of  the 
houses  in  St.  George  Street  for  a  piece  of  bread.  His 
father's  hard  struggles  to  maintain  and  raise  his  family 
have  succeeded  at  last;  he  is  now  the  owner  of  a 
foundry  and  some  smelting-furnaces,  and  supports 
Martin  liberally  at  the  University.  The  icy  morning 
of  Martin's  struggles  seems  over,  and  all  is  bright  be- 
fore him. 

Erfurt  is  the  first  University  in  Germany.  Com- 
pared with  it,  as  Martin  Luther  says,  the  other  uni- 
versities are  mere  private  academies.  At  present  we 
have  from  a  thousand  to  thirteen  hundred  students. 
Some  of  our  professors  have  studied  the  classics  in 
Italy,  under  the  descendants  of  the  ancient  Greeks 
and  Romans.  The  Elector  Frederic  has,  indeed,  lately 
founded   a   new  University  at  Wittenberg,   but  we  at 


fkibdrich's  story.  53 

Erfurt  have  little  fear  of  Wittenberg  outstripping  our 
ancient  institution. 

The  Humanists ,  or  disciples  of  the  ancient  heathen 
learning,  are  in  great  force  here,  with  Mutianus  Rufus 
at  their  head.  They  meet  often,  especially  at  his  house, 
and  he  gives  them  subjects  for  Latin  versification,  such 
as  the  praises  of  poverty.  Martin  Luther's  friend 
Spalatin  joined  these  assemblies;  but  he  himself  does 
not,  at  least  not  as  a  member.  Indeed,  strange  things 
are  reported  of  their  converse,  which  make  the  names 
of  poet  and  philosopher  in  which  they  delight  very 
much  suspected  in  orthodox  circles.  These  ideas 
Mutianus  and  his  friends  are  said  to  have  imported 
with  the  classical  literature  from  Italy.  He  has  even 
declared  and  written  in  a  letter  to  a  friend,  that  "there 
is  but  one  God,  and  one  goddess,  although  under 
various  forms  and  various  names,  as  Jupiter,  Sol,  Apollo, 
Moses,  Christ-,  Luna,  Ceres,  Proserpine,  Tellus,  Mary." 
But  these  things  he  warns  his  disciples  not  to  speak  of 
in  public.  "They  must  be  veiled  in  silence,"  he  says, 
"like  the  Eleusinian  mysteries.  In  the  affairs  of  religion 
we  must  make  use  of  the  mask  of  fables  and  enigmas. 
Let  us  by  the  grace  of  Jupiter,  that  is,  of  the  best  and 
highest  God,  despise  the  lesser  gods.  When  I  say 
Jupiter,  I  mean  Christ  and  the  true  God." 

Mutianus  and  his  friends  also  in  their  intimate 
circles  speak  most  slightingly  of  the  Church  ceremonies, 
calling  the  Mass  a  comedy,  and  the  holy  relics  ravens' 
bones;*  speaking  of  the  service  of  the  altar  as  so  much 
lost  time;  and  stigmatizing  the  prayers  at  the  canonical 
hours  as  a  mere  baying  of  hounds,  or  the  humming, 
not  of  busy  bees,  but  of  lazy  drones. 

*  That  is,  skeletons  left  on  the  gallows  for  the  ravens  to  peck  at. 


54        CHRONICLES  OF  THE   SCHONBERG-COTTA  FAMILY. 

If  you  reproached  them  with  such  irreverent  say- 
ings, they  would  probably  reply  that  they  had  only 
uttered  them  in  an  esoteric  sense,  and  meant  nothing 
by  them.  But  when  people  deem  it  right  thus  to  mask 
their  truths,  and  explain  away  their  errors,  it  is  diffi- 
cult to  distinguish  which  is  the  mask  and  which  the 
reality  in  their  estimation.  It  seems  to  me  also  that 
they  make  mere  intellectual  games  or  exercises  out  of 
the  most  profound  and  awful  questions. 

This  probably,  more  than  the  daring  character  of 
their  speculations,  deters  Martin  Luther  from  number- 
ing himself  among  them.  His  nature  is  so  reverent  in 
spite  of  all  the  courage  of  his  character.  I  think  he 
would  dare  or  suffer  anything  for  what  he  believed 
true-,  but  he  cannot  bear  to  have  the  poorest  fragment 
of  what  he  holds  sacred  trifled  with  or  played  with  as 
a  mere  feat  of  intellectual  gymnastics. 

His  chief  attention  is  at  present  directed,  by  his 
father's  especial  desire,  to  Roman  literature  and  law, 
and  to  the  study  of  the  allegories  and  philosophy  of 
Aristotle.  He  likes  to  have  to  do  with  what  is  true 
and  solid;  poetry  and  music  are  his  delight  and  recrea- 
tion. But  it  is  in  debate  he  most  excels.  A  few  even- 
ings since,  he  introduced  me  to  a  society  of  students, 
where  questions  new  and  old  are  debated;  and  it  was 
glorious  to  see  how  our  Martin  carried  off"  the  palm; 
sometimes  swooping  down  on  his  opponents  like  an 
eagle  among  a  flock  of  small  birds,  or  setting  down  his 
great  lion's  paw  and  quietly  crushing  a  host  of  objec- 
tions, apparently  unaware  of  the  mischief  he  had  done, 
until  some  feeble  wail  of  the  prostrate  foe  made  him 
sensible  of  it,  and  he  withdrew  with  a  good-humoured 
apology  for  having  hurt  any  one's  feelings.     At  other 


FRIEIiRICn's  STORY.  55 

times  he  withers  an  unfair  argument  or  a  confused 
statement  to  a  cinder  by  some  lightning-flash  of  humour 
or  satire.  I  do  not  think  he  is  often  perplexed  by 
seeing  too  much  of  the  other  side  of  a  disputed  ques- 
tion. He  holds  the  one  truth  he  is  contending  for, 
and  he  sees  the  one  point  he  is  aiming  at,  and  at  that 
he  charges  with  a  force  compounded  of  the  ponderous 
weight  of  his  will,  and  the  electric  velocity  of  bis 
thoughts,  crushing  whatever  comes  in  his  way,  scattering 
whatever  escapes  right  and  left,  and  never  heeding 
how  the  scattered  forces  may  reunite  and  form  in  his 
rear.  He  knows  that  if  he  only  turns  on  them,  in  a 
moment  they  will  disperse  again. 

I  cannot  quite  tell  bow  this  style  of  warfare  would 
answer  for  an  advocate,  who  had  to  make  the  best  of 
any  cause  he  is  engaged  to  plead.  I  cannot  fancy 
Martin  Luther  quietly  collecting  the  arguments  from 
the  worst  side,  to  the  end  that  even  the  worst  side  may 
have  fair  play;  which  is,  I  suppose,  often  the  office  of 
an  advocate. 

No  doubt,  however,  he  will  find  or  make  his  calling 
in  the  world.  The  professors  and  learned  men  have 
the  most  brilliant  expectations  as  to  his  career.  And 
what  is  rare  (they  say),  he  seems  as  much  the  favourite 
of  the  students  as  of  the  professors.  His  nature  is  so 
social-,  his  musical  abilities  and  his  wonderful  powers 
of  conversation  make  him  popular  with  all. 

And  yet,  underneath  it  all,  we  who  know  him  well 
can  detect  at  times  that  tide  of  thoughtful  melancholy 
which  seems  to  lie  at  the  bottom  of  all  hearts  which 
have  looked  deeply  into  themselves  or  into  life. 

He  is  as  attentive  as  ever  to  religion,  never  missing 
the  daily  mass.    But  in  our  private  conversations,  I  see 


56        CHRONICLES  OF  THE  SCHONBERG-COTTA  FAMILY. 

that  his  conscience  is  anything  hut  at  ease.  Has  he 
passed  through  conflicts  such  as  mine  in  the  forest  on 
that  terrible  night?  Perhaps  through  conflicts  as  much 
fiercer  and  more  terrible,  as  his  character  is  stronger 
and  his  mind  deeper  than  mine.  But  who  can  tell? 
What  is  the  use  of  unfolding  perplexities  to  each  other, 
which  it  seems  no  intellect  on  earth  can  solve?  The 
inmost  recesses  of  the  heart  must  always,  I  suppose,  be 
a  solitude,  like  that  dark  and  awful  sanctuary  within 
the  veil  of  the  old  Jewish  temple,  entered  only  once  a 
year,  and  faintly  illumined  by  the  light  without, 
through  the  thick  folds  of  the  sacred  veil. 

If  only  that  solitude  were  indeed  a  holy  of  holies 
—  or,  being  what  it  is,  if  we  only  need  enter  it  once 
a  year,  and  not  carry  about  the  consciousness  of  its 
dark  secrets  with  us  everywhere.  But,  alas!  once 
entered  we  can  never  forget  it.  It  is  like  the  chill, 
dark  crypts  underneath  our  churches,  where  the  masses 
for  the  dead  are  celebrated,  and  where  in  some  monastic 
churches  the  embalmed  corpses  lie  shrivelled  to  mum- 
mies, and  visible  through  gratings.  Through  all  the 
joyous  festivals  of  the  holidays  above,  the  conscious- 
ness of  those  dark  chambers  of  death  below  seems  to 
creep  up-,  like  the  damps  of  the  vaults  through  the 
incense,  like  the  muffled  wail  of  the  dirges  through  the 
songs  of  praise. 

Erfurt,  April  4505. 

We  are  just  returned  from  an  expedition  which 
might  have  proved  fatal  to  Martin  Luther.  Early  in 
the  morning,  three  days  since,  we  started  to  walk  to 
Mansfeld  on  a  visit  to  his  family,  our  hearts  as  full  of 
hope  as  the  woods  were  full  of  song.     We  were  armed 


tkiedrich's  story.  57 

with  swords-,  our  wallets  were  full;  and  spirits  light  as 
the  air.  Our  way  was  to  lie  through  field  and  forest, 
and  then  along  the  banks  of  the  river  Holme,  through 
the  Golden  Meadow  where  are  so  many  noble  cloisters 
and  imperial  palaces. 

But  we  had  scarcely  been  on  our  way  an  hour 
when  Martin,  by  some  accident,  ran  his  sword  into  his 
foot.  To  my  dismay  the  blood  gushed  out  in  a  stream. 
He  bad  cut  into  a  main  artery.  I  left  him  under  the 
care  of  some  peasants,  and  ran  back  to  Erfurt  for  a 
physician.  When  he  arrived,  however,  there  was  great 
difficulty  in  closing  the  wound  with  bandages.  I  longed 
for  Else  or  our  mother's  skilful  fingers.  We  contrived 
to  carry  him  back  to  the  city.  I  sat  up  to  watch  with 
bim.  But  in  the  middle  of  the  night  his  wound  burst 
out  bleeding  afresh.  The  danger  was  very  great,  and 
Martin  himself  giving  up  hope,  and  believing  death 
was  close  at  hand,  committed  his  soul  to  the  blessed 
Mother  of  God.  Merciful  and  pitiful,  knowing  sorrow, 
yet  raised  glorious  above  all  sorrow,  with  a  mother's 
heart  for  all,  and  a  mother's  claim  on  Him  who  is  the 
judge  of  all,  where  indeed  can  we  so  safely  flee  for  re- 
fuge as  to  Mary?  It  was  edifying  to  see  Martin's 
devotion  to  her,  and  no  doubt  it  was  greatly  owing  to 
this  that  at  length  the  remedies  succeeded,  the  bandages 
closed  the  wound  again,  and  the  blood  was  stanched. 

Many  an  Ave  will  I  say  for  this  to  the  sweet  Mother 
of  Mercy.  Perchance  she  may  also  have  pity  on  me. 
0  sweetest  Lady,  "eternal  daughter  of  the  eternal 
Father,  heart  of  the  indivisible  Trinity,"  thou  seest  my 
desire  to  help  my  own  careworn  mother;  aid  me,  and 
have  mercy  on  me,  thy  sinful  child. 


58         CHRONICLES    OF   THE   SCHONBERG-COTTA   FAMILY. 

Erfurt,  June  1503. 

Martin  LutLer  has  taken  his  first  degree.  He  is  a 
fervent  student,  earnest  in  this  as  in  everything.  Cicero 
and  Virgil  are  his  great  companions  among  the  Latins. 
He  is  now  raised  quite  above  the  pressing  cares  of 
penury,  and  will  probably  never  taste  them  more.  His 
father  is  now  a  prosperous  burgher  of  Mansfeld,  and 
on  the  way  to  become  burgomaster.  I  wish  the  pro- 
spects at  my  home  were  as  cheering.  A  few  years  less 
of  pinching  poverty  for  myself  seems  to  matter  little, 
but  the  cares  of  our  mother  and  Else  weigh  on  me 
often  heavily.  It  must  be  long  yet  before  I  can  help 
them  effectually,  and  meantime  the  bright  youth  of  my 
little  Else,  and  the  very  life  of  our  toilworn  patient 
mother,  will  be  wearing  away. 

For  myself  I  can  fully  enter  into  what  Martin  says, 
"The  young  should  learn  especially  to  endure  suffering 
and  want-,  for  such  suffering  doth  them  no  harm.  It 
doth  more  harm  for  one  to  prosper  without  toil  than  it 
doth  to  endure  suffering."  He  says  also,  "It  is  God's 
way,  of  beggars  to  make  men  of  power,  just  as  he  made 
the  world  out  of  nothing.  Look  upon  the  courts  of 
kings  and  princes,  upon  cities  and  parishes.  You  will 
there  find  jurists,  doctors,  councillors,  secretaries,  and 
preachers  who  were  commonly  poor,  and  always  such 
as  have  been  students,  and  have  risen  and  flown  so 
high  through  the  quill  that  they  are  become  lords." 

But  the  way  to  wealth  through  the  quill  seems  long; 
and  lives  so  precious  to  me  are  being  worn  out  mean- 
time, while  I  climb  to  the  point  where  I  could  help 
them!  Sometimes  I  wish  I  had  chosen  the  calling  of 
a  merchant,  men  seem  to  prosper  so  much  more  rapidly 


friediuch's  story.  59 

through  trade  than  through  study;  and  nothing  on  earth 
seems  to  me  so  well  worth  working  for  as  to  lift  the 
load  from  their  hearts  at  home.  But  it  is  too  late. 
Eolling  stones  gather  no  moss.  I  must  go  on  now  in 
the  track  I  have  chosen.  Only  sometimes  again  the 
fear  which  came  over  me  on  that  night  in  the  forest. 
It  seems  as  if  heaven  were  against  me,  and  that  it  is 
vain  presumption  for  such  as  I  even  to  hope  to  benefit 
any  one. 

Partly,  no  doubt,  it  is  the  depression,  caused  by 
poor  living,  which  brings  these  thoughts.  Martin  Luther 
said  so  to  me  one  day  when  he  found  me  desponding. 
He  said  he  knew  so  well  what  it  was.  He  had  suffered 
so  much  from  penury  at  Magdeburg,  and  at  Eisenach 
had  even  seriously  thought  of  giving  up  study  alto- 
gether and  returning  to  his  father's  calling.  He  is  kind 
to  me  and  to  all  who  need,  but  his  means  do  not  yet 
allow  him  to  do  more  than  maintain  himself.  Or  rather, 
they  are  not  his  but  his  father's,  and  he  feels  he  has 
no  right  to  be  generous  at  the  expense  of  his  father's 
self-denial  and  toil. 

I  find  life  look  different,  I  must  say,  after  a  good 
meal.  But  then  I  cannot  get  rid  of  the  thought  of  the 
few  such  meals  they  have  at  home.  Not  that  Else 
writes  gloomily.  She  never  mentions  a  thing  to  sadden 
me.  And  this  week  she  sent  me  a  gulden,  which  she 
said  belonged  to  her  alone,  and  she  had  vowed  never 
to  use  unless  I  would  take  it.  But  a  student  who  saw 
them  lately  said  our  mother  looked  wan  and  ill.  And 
to  increase  their  difficulties,  a  month  since  the  father 
received  into  the  house  a  little  orphan  girl,  a  cousin  of 
our  mother's,  called  Eva  von  Schonberg.  Heaven 
forbid  that  I  should  grudge  the  orphan  her  crust,   but 


GO        CHRONICLES  OF  THE  &CHONBERG-COXTA  FAMILY. 

when  it  makes  a  crust  less  for  the  mother  and  the  little 
ones,  it  is  difficult  to  rejoice  in  such  an  act  of  charity. 

Erfurt,  July  4503. 

I  have  just  obtained  a  nomination  on  a  foundation, 
which  will,  I  hope,  for  the  present  at  least,  prevent 
my  being  any  burden  on  my  family  for  my  own  main- 
tenance. The  rules  are  very  strict,  and  they  are  en- 
forced with  many  awful  vows  and  oaths  which  trouble 
my  conscience  not  a  little,  because,  if  the  least  detail 
of  these  rules  to  which  I  have  sworn  is  even  inad- 
vertently omitted,  I  involve  myself  in  the  guilt  of  per 
jury.  However,  it  is  a  step  onward  in  the  way  to  in- 
dependence; and  a  far  heavier  yoke  might  well  be 
borne  with  such  an  object. 

We  (the  beneficiaries  on  this  foundation)  have  so- 
lemnly vowed  to  observe  the  seven  canonical  hours, 
never  omitting  the  prayers  belonging  to  each.  This 
insures  early  rising,  which  is  a  good  thing  for  a  student. 
The  most  difficult  to  keep  is  the  midnight  hour,  after 
a  day  of  hard  study;  but  it  is  no  more  than  soldiers  on 
duty  have  continually  to  go  through.  We  have  also 
to  chant  the  Miserere  at  funerals,  and  frequently  to 
hear  the  eulogy  of  the  Blessed  Virgin  Mary.  This  last 
can  certainly  not  be  called  a  hardship,  least  of  all  to 
me  who  desire  ever  henceforth  to  have  an  especial 
devotion  to  Our  Lady,  to  recite  daily  the  Rosary,  com- 
memorating the  joys  of  Mary,  the  Salutation,  the  journey 
across  the  mountains,  the  birth  without  pain,  the  find- 
ing of  Jesus  in  the  Temple,  and  the  Ascension.  It  is 
only  the  vows  which  make  it  rather  a  bondage.  But, 
indeed,  in  spite  of  all,  it  is  a  great  boon.  I  can  con- 
scientiously write  to  Else  now,   that  I  shall  not  need 


friedrich's  story.  61 

another  penny  of  their  scanty  store,  and  can  even,  by 
the  next  opportunity,  return  what  she  sent,  which, 
happily,  I  have  not  yet  touched. 

Aui/ust  1503. 

Martin  Luther  is  very  dangerously  ill;  many  of  the 
professors  and  students  are  in  great  anxiety  about  hiin. 
He  has  so  many  friends;  and  no  wonder!  He  is  no 
cold  friend  himself,  and  all  expect  great  honour  to  the 
University  from  his  abilities.  I  scarcely  dare  to  think 
what  his  loss  would  be  to  me.  But  this  morning  an 
aged  priest  who  visited  him  inspired  us  with  some  hope. 
As  Martin  lay,  apparently  in  the  last  extremity,  and 
himself  expecting  death,  this  old  priest  came  to  his 
bed-side,  and  said  gently,  but  in  a  firm  tone  of  con- 
viction, — 

"Be  of  good  comfort,  my  brother,  you  will  not  die 
at  this  time;  God  will  yet  make  a  great  man  of  you, 
who  shall  comfort  many  others.  Whom  God  loveth 
and  proposeth  to  make  a  blessing,  upon  him  he  early 
layeth  the  cross,  and  in  that  school,  who  patiently 
endure  learn  much." 

The  words  came  with  a  strange  kind  of  power,  and 
I  cannot  help  thinking  that  there  is  a  little  improve- 
ment in  the  patient  since  they  were  uttered.  Truly, 
good  words  are  like  food  and  medicine  to  body  and 
soul. 

Erfurt,  August  1505. 

Martin  Luther  is  recovered!  The  Almighty,  the 
Blessed  Mother,  and  all  the  saints  be  praised. 

The  good  old  priest's  words  have  also  brought  some 
especial  comfort  to  me.     If  it  could  only  be  possible 


C2        CHRONICLES   OP   THE  JsClliJNBERG-COTTA  FAMILY. 

that  those  troubles  and  cares  which  have  weighed  so 
heavily  on  Else's  early  life  and  mine,  are  not  the  rod 
of  anger,  but  the  cross  laid  on  those  God  loveth!  But 
who  can  tell?  For  Else,  at  least,  I  will  try  to  believe 
this. 

The  world  is  wide  in  those  days,  with  the  great 
New  World  opened  by  the  Spanish  mariners  beyond 
the  Atlantic,  and  the  noble  Old  World  opened  to 
students  through  the  sacred  fountains  of  the  ancient 
i- lassies,  once  more  unsealed  by  the  revived  study  of 
the  ancient  languages;  and  this  new  discovery  of  print- 
ing, which  will,  my  father  thinks,  diffuse  the  newly 
unsealed  fountains  of  ancient  wisdom  in  countless  chan- 
nels among  high  and  low. 

These  are  glorious  times  to  live  in.  So  much  al- 
ready unfolded  to  us!  And  who  knows  what  beyond? 
For  it  seems  as  if  the  hearts  of  men  everywhere  were 
beating  high  with  expectation;  as  if,  in  these  days, 
nothing  were  too  great  to  anticipate,  or  too  good  to 
believe. 

It  is  well  to  encounter  our  dragons  at  the  threshold 
of  life;  instead  of  at  the  end  of  the  race  —  at  the 
threshold  of  death;  therefore,  I  may  well  be  content. 
In  this  wide  and  ever  widening  world,  there  must  be 
some  career  for  me  and  mine.     What  will  it  be? 

And  what  will  Martin  Luther's  be?  Much  is  ex- 
pected from  him.  Famous  every  one  at  the  University 
says  he  must  be.  On  what  field  will  he  win  his 
laurels?     Will  they  be  laurels  or  palms? 

When  I  hear  him  in  the  debates  of  the  students, 
all  waiting  for  his  opinions,  and  applauding  his  elo- 
quent words,  I  see  the  laurel  already  among  his  black 
hair,    wreathing    his   massive    homely   forehead.      But 


FRIEDRICIi  S    STORY. 


63 


when  I  remember  the  debate  which  I  know  there  is 
within  him ,  the  anxious  fervency  of  his  devotions ,  his 
struggle  of  conscience,  his  distress  at  any  omission  of 
duty,  and  watch  the  deep  melancholy  look  which  there 
is  sometimes  in  his  dark  eyes,  I  think  not  of  the  tales 
of  the  heroes,  but  of  the  legends  of  the  saints,  and 
wonder  in  what  victory  over  the  old  dragon  he  will 
win  his  palm. 

But   the   bells   are  sounding    for   compline,    and    I 
must  not  miss  the  sacred  hour. 


64        CHRONICLES  OF  THE  SCHONBERG-COTTA  FAMILY. 


111. 

ELSE'S   CHRONICLE. 

Eisenach,  1504. 

I  cannot  say  that  things  have  prospered  much  with 
us  since  Fritz  left.  The  lumher-room  itself  is  changed. 
The  piles  of  old  hooks  are  much  reduced,  because  we 
have  been  obliged  to  pawn  many  of  them  for  food. 
Some  even  of  the  father's  beautiful  models  have  had 
to  be  sold.  It  went  terribly  to  his  heart.  But  it  paid 
our  debts. 

Our  grandmother  has  grown  a  little  querulous  at 
times  lately.  And  I  am  so  tempted  to  be  cross  some- 
times. The  boys  eat  so  much,  and  wear  out  their 
clothes  so  fast.  Indeed,  I  cannot  see  that  poverty 
makes  any  of  us  any  better,  except  it  be  my  mother, 
who  needed  improvement  least  of  all. 

September  450i. 

The  father  has  actually  brought  a  new  inmate  into 
the  house,  a  little  girl,  called  Eva  von  Schonberg,  a 
distant  cousin  of  our  mother. 

Last  week  he  told  us  she  was  coming,  very  ab- 
ruptly. I  think  he  was  rather  afraid  of  what  our 
grandmother  would  say,  for  we  all  know  it  is  not  of 
the  least  use  to  come  round  her  with  soft  speeches. 
She  always  sees  what  you  are  aiming  at,  and  with  her 
keen  eyes  cuts  straight  through  all  your  circumlocu- 
tions, and  obliges  you  to  descend  direct  on  your  point, 
with  more  rapidity  than  grace. 


ELSE'S  STORY.  65 

Accordingly,  he  said,  quite  suddenly,  one  day  at 
dinner,  — 

UI  forgot  to  tell  you,  little  mother,  I  have  just  had 
a  letter  from  your  relations  in  Bohemia.  Your  great- 
uncle  is  dead.  His  son,  you  know,  died  before  him. 
A  little  orphan  girl  is  left  with  no  one  to  take  care  of 
her.  I  have  desired  them  to  send  her  to  us.  I  could 
do  no  less.  It  was  an  act,  not  of  charity,  but  of  the 
plainest  duty.  And  besides,"  he  added,  apologetically, 
"in  the  end  it  may  make  our  fortunes.  There  is  pro- 
perty somewhere  in  the  family,  if  we  could  get  it  5  and 
this  little  Eva  is  the  descendant  of  the  eldest  branch. 
Indeed,  I  do  not  know  but  that  sbe  may  bring  many 
valuable  family  heirlooms  with  her." 

These  last  observations  he  addressed  especially  to 
my  grandmother,  hoping  thereby  to  make  it  clear  to 
her  that  the  act  was  one  of  the  deepest  worldly  wisdom. 
Then  turning  to  the  mother,  he  concluded,  — 

"Little  mother,  thou  wilt  find  a  place  for  the 
orphan  in  thy  heart,  and  Heaven  will  no  doubt  bless 
us  for  it." 

"No  doubt  about  the  room  in  my  daughter's  heart!" 
murmured  our  grandmother;  "the  question,  as  I  read 
it,  is  not  about  hearts,  but  about  larders  and  wardrobes. 
And,  certainly,"  she  added,  not  very  pleasantly,  "there 
is  room  enough  there  for  any  family  jewels  the  young 
heiress  may  bring." 

As  usual,  the  mother  came  to  the  rescue. 

"Dear  grandmother,"  she  said,  "Heaven,  no  doubt, 
will  repay  us;  and  besides,  you  know,  we  may  now 
venture  on  a  little  more  expense,  since  we  are  out  of 
debt." 

"There  is  no  doubt,  I  suppose,"  retorted  our  grand 

Schdnbwg-Cotia  Family.   1.  0 


66        CHRONICLES  OF   IHE  SCHONI3EUGCOTTA  FAMILY. 

mother,  "about  Heaven  repaying  you;  but  there  seems 
to  me  a  good  deal  of  doubt  whether  it  will  be  in  cur- 
rent coin." 

Then,  I  suppose  fearing  the  effect  of  so  doubtful  a 
sentiment  on  the  children,  she  added  rather  queru- 
lously, but  in  a  gentler  tone,  — 

"Let  the  little  creature  come.  Room  may  be  made 
for  her  soon  in  one  way  or  another.  The  old  creep 
out  at  the  churchyard  gate,  while  the  young  bound  in 
at  the  front  door." 

And  in  a  few  days  little  Eva  came;  but,  unfor- 
tunately without  the  family  jewels.  But  the  saints 
forbid  I  should  grow  mercenary  or  miserly,  and  grudge 
the  orphan  her  crust! 

And  who  could  help  welcoming  little  Eva?  As  she 
lies  on  my  bed  asleep,  with  her  golden  hair  on  the 
pillow,  and  the  long  lashes  shading  her  cheek,  flushed 
with  sleep  and  resting  on  her  dimpled  white  hand,  who 
could  wish  her  away?  And  when  I  put  out  the  lamp 
(as  I  must  very  soon)  and  lie  down  beside  her,  6he 
will  half  awake,  just  to  nestle  into  my  heart,  and 
murmur  in  her  sleep,  "Sweet  cousin  Else!"  And  I 
shall  no  more  be  able  to  wish  her  gone  than  my 
guardian  angel.  Indeed  I  think  she  is  something  like 
one. 

She  is  not  quite  ten  years  old;  but  being  an  only 
child,  and  always  brought  up  with  older  people,  she 
has  a  quiet,  considerate  way,  and  a  quaint,  thoughtful 
gravity,  which  sits  with  a  strange  charm  on  her  bright, 
innocent,  child-like  face. 

At  first  she  seemed  a  little  afraid  of  our  children, 
especially  the  boys,  and  crept  about  everywhere  by  the 
side  of  my  mother,   to  whom  she  gave  her  confidence 


else's  story.  67 

from  the  beginning.  She  did  not  so  immediately  take 
to  our  grandmother,  who  was  not  very  warm  in  her 
reception ;  but  the  second  evening  after  her  arrival,  she 
deliberately  took  her  little  stool  up  to  our  grand- 
mother's side,  and  seating  herself  at  her  feet,  laid  her 
two  little,  soft  hands  on  the  dear,  thin,  old  hands,  and 
said,  — 

"You  must  love  me,  for  I  shall  love  you  very  much. 
You  are  like  my  great-aunt  who  died." 

And,  strange  to  say,  our  grandmother  seemed  quite 
flattered-,  and  ever  since  they  have  been  close  friends. 
Indeed  she  commands  us  all,  and  there  is  not  one  in 
the  house  who  does  not  seem  to  think  her  notice  a 
favour.     I  wonder  if  Fritz  would  feel  the  same! 

Our  father  lets  her  sit  in  his  printing-room  when 
he  is  making  experiments,  which  none  of  us  ever  dared 
to  do.  She  perches  herself  on  the  window-sill,  and 
watches  him  as  if  she  understood  it  all,  and  he  talks 
to  her  as  if  he  thought  she  did. 

Then  she  has  a  wonderful  way  of  telling  the  le- 
gends of  the  saints  to  the  children.  When  our  grand- 
mother tells  them,  I  think  of  the  saints  as  heroes  and 
warriors.  When  I  try  to  relate  the  sacred  stories  to 
the  little  ones,  I  am  afraid  I  make  them  too  much  like 
fairy  tales.  But  when  little  Eva  is  speaking  about 
St.  Agnes  or  St.  Catherine,  her  voice  becomes  soft  and 
deep,  like  church  music;  and  her  face  grave  and  beau- 
tiful, like  one  of  the  child-angels  in  the  pictures;  and 
her  eyes  as  if  they  saw  into  heaven.  I  wish  Fritz 
could  hear  her.  I  think  she  must  be  just  what  the 
saints  were  when  they  were  little  children,  except  for 
that  strange,  quiet  way  she  has  of  making  every  one 
do  what  she  likes.    If  our  St.  Elizabeth  had  resembled 


GS        CHRONICLES   OF  THE   SCHONBERG-COTTA  FAMILY. 

our  little  Eva  in  that,  I  scarcely  think  the  Landgravine- 
mother  would  have  ventured  to  have  heen  so  cruel  to 
her.  Perhaps  it  is  little  Eva  who  is  to  he  the  saint 
among  us-,  and  hy  helping  her  we  may  best  please 
God,  and  be  admitted  at  last  to  some  humble  place  in 
heaven. 

Eisenach,  December. 

It  is  a  great  comfort  that  Fritz  writes  in  such 
good  spirits.  He  seems  full  of  hope  as  to  his  prospects, 
and  already  he  has  obtained  a  place  in  some  excellent 
institution,  where,  he  says,  he  lives  like  a  cardinal, 
and  is  quite  above  wanting  assistance  from  any  one. 
This  is  very  encouraging.  Martin  Luther,  also,  is  on 
the  way  to  be  quite  a  great  man,  Fritz  says.  It  is 
difficult  to  imagine  this;  he  looked  so  much  like  any 
one  else,  and  we  are  all  so  completely  at  home  with 
him,  and  he  talks  in  such  a  simple,  familiar  way  to  us 
all  —  not  in  learned  words,  or  about  difficult,  abstruse 
subjects,  like  the  other  wise  men  I  know.  Certainly  it 
always  interests  us  all  to  hear  him,  but  one  can  under- 
stand all  he  says  —  even  I  can;  so  that  it  is  not  easy 
to  think  of  him  as  a  philosopher  and  a  great  man.  I 
suppose  wise  men  must  be  like  the  saints:  one  can  only 
see  what  they  are  when  they  are  at  some  distance 
from  us. 

What  kind  of  great  man  will  Martin  Luther  be,  I 
wonder?  As  great  as  our  burgomaster,  or  as  Master 
Trebonius?  Perhaps  even  greater  th  n  these;  as  great, 
even,  as  the  Elector's  secretary,  who  came  to  see  our 
father  about  his  inventions.  But  it  is  a  great  comfort 
to  think  of  it,  especially  on  Fritz's  account;  for  I  am 
sure  Martin  will  never  forget  old  friends. 

I  cannot  quite  comprehend  Eva's  religion.    It  seems 


else's  story.  G9 

to  make  her  liappy.  I  do  not  think  she  is  afraid  of 
God,  or  even  of  confession.  She  seems  to  enjoy  going 
to  church  as  if  it  were  a  holiday  in  the  woods;  and  the 
name  of  Jesus  seems  not  terrible,  but  dear  to  her,  as 
the  name  of  the  sweet  Mother  of  God  is  to  me.  This 
is  very  difficult  to  understand.  I  think  she  is  not 
even  very  much  afraid  of  the  judgment-day,  and  this 
is  the  reason  why  I  think  so :  —  The  other  night  when 
we  were  both  awakened  by  an  awful  thunder-storm,  I 
hid  my  face  under  the  clothes,  in  order  not  not  to  see 
the  flashes,  until  I  heard  the  children  crying  in  the 
next  room,  and  rose  of  course,  to  soothe  them,  because 
our  mother  had  been  very  tired  that  day,  and  was,  I 
trusted,  asleep.  When  I  had  sung  and  talked  to  the 
little  ones,  and  sat  by  them  till  they  were  asleep,  I 
returned  to  our  room,  trembling  in  every  limb;  but  I 
found  Eva  kneeling  by  the  bed-side,  with  her  crucifix 
pressed  to  her  bosom,  looking  as  calm  and  happy  as  if 
the  lightning  flashes  had  been  morning  sunbeams. 

She  rose  from  her  knees  when  I  entered;  and  when 
I  was  once  more  safely  in  bed,   with  my  arm  around 
her,  and  the  storm  had  lulled  a  little,  I  said,  — 
"Eva,  are  you  not  afraid  of  the  lightning?" 
"I  'hink  it  might  hurt  us,  Cousin  Else,"  she  said; 
"and  that  was  the  reason  I  was  praying  to  God." 

"But,  Eva,"  I  said,  "supposing  the  thunder  should 
be  the  archangel's  voice!  I  always  think  every 
thunder-storm  may  be  the  beginning  of  the  day  of 
wrath  —  the  dreadful  judgment-day.  What  should 
you  do  then?" 

She  was  silent  a  little,  and  then  she  said,  — 
"I  think  I  should  take  my  crucifix  and  pray,    and 
try  to  ask  the  Lord  Christ  to  remember  that  he  died 


70        CHRONICLES   OF   THE  SCHONBERG-COTTA  FAMILY. 

on  the  cross  for  us  once.  I  think  be  would  take  pity 
on  us  if  we  did.  Besides,  Cousin  Else,"  she  added, 
after  a  pause,  "I  have  a  sentence  which  always  com- 
forts me.  My  father  taught  it  me  when  I  was  a  very 
little  girl,  in  the  prison,  before  be  died.  I  could  not 
remember  it  all,  but  this  part  I  have  never  forgotten: 
'  God  so  loved  the  world,  that  he  gave  his  only  Son?  There 
was  more,  which  I  forgot-,  but  that  bit  I  always  re- 
membered, because  I  was  my  father's  only  child,  and 
he  loved  me  so  dearly.  I  do  not  quite  know  all  it 
means;  but  I  know  they  are  God's  words,  but  I  feel 
sure  it  means  that  God  loves  us  very  much,  and  that 
he  is  in  some  way  like  my  father." 

"I  know,"  I  replied,  "the  Creed  says,  'God  the 
Father  Almighty,'  but  I  never  thought  that  the  Al- 
mighty Father  meant  anything  like  our  own  father.  I 
thought  it  meant  only  that  he  is  very  great,  and  that 
we  all  belong  to  him,  and  that  we  ought  to  love  him. 
Are  you  sure,  Eva,  it  means  he  loves  m    " 

"I  believe  so,  Cousin  Else,"  said  Eva. 

"Perhaps  it  does  mean  that  he  loves  you,  Eva,"  I 
answered.  "But  you  are  a  good  child,  and  always 
have  been,  I  should  think;  and  we  all  know  that  God 
loves  people  who  are  good.  That  sentence  says  no- 
thing, you  see,  about  God  loving  people  who  are  not 
good.  It  is  because  I  am  never  sure  that  I  am  doing 
the  things  that  please  him,  that  I  am  afraid  of  God 
and  of  the  judgment-day." 

Eva  was  silent  a  minute,  and  then  she  said,  — 

"I  wish  I  could  remember  the  rest  of  the  sentence. 
Perhaps  it  might  tell." 

"Where  does  that  sentence  come  from,  Eva?"  1 
asked.      "Perhaps   we   might  find   it.      Do  you   think 


else's  story.  71 

God  said  it  to  your  father  from  Leaven,  in  a  vision  or 
a  dream,  as  he  speaks  to  the  saints?" 

"I  think  not,  Cousin  Else,"  she  replied  thought- 
fully; "because  my  father  said  it  was  in  a  book,  which 
he  told  me  where  to  find,  when  he  was  gone.  But 
when  I  found  the  book,  a  priest  took  it  from  me,  and 
said  it  was  not  a  good  book  for  little  girls;  and  I 
never  had  it  again.  So  I  have  only  my  sentence, 
Cousin  Else.  I  wish  it  made  you  happy,  as  it  does 
me." 

I  kissed  the  darling  child  and  wished  her  good 
night;  but  I  could  not  sleep.  I  wish  I  could  see  the 
book.  But  perhaps,  after  all,  it  is  not  a  right  book; 
because  (although  Eva  does  not  know  it)  I  heard  my 
grandmother  say  her  father  was  a  Hussite,  and  died 
on  the  scaffold  for  believing  something  wrong. 

In  the  morning  Eva  was  awake  before  me.  Her 
large  dark  eyes  were  watching  me,  and  the  moment  I 
woke  she  said,  — 

"Cousin  Else,  I  think  the  end  of  that  sentence  has 
something  to  do  with  the  crucifix;  because  I  always 
think  of  them  together.  You  know  the  Lord  Jesus 
Christ  is  God's  only  Son,  and  he  died  on  the  cross 
for  us." 

And  she  rose  and  dressed,  and  said  she  would  go 
to  matins  and  say  prayers  for  me,  that  I  might  not  be 
afraid  in  the  next  thunder-storm. 

It  must  be  true,  I  am  sure,  that  the  cross  and  the 
blessed  Passion  were  meant  to  do  us  some  good;  but 
then  they  can  only  do  good  to  those  who  please  God, 
and  that  is  precisely  what  it  is  so  exceedingly  difficult 
to  find  out  how  to  do. 

I  cannot  think,  however,  that  Eva  can  in  any  way 


72        CHRONICLES   OF  THE  SCHONBERG-COXTA  EAMLL.Y. 

be  believing  wrong,  because  she  is  so  religious  and  so 
good.  She  attends  most  regularly  at  the  confessional, 
and  is  always  at  church  at  the  early  mass,  and  many 
times  besides.  Often,  also,  I  find  her  at  her  devotions 
before  the  crucifix  and  the  picture  of  the  Holy  Virgin 
and  Child  in  our  room.  She  seems  really  to  enjoy 
being  religious,  as  they  say  St.  Elizabeth  did. 

As  for  me,  there  is  so  very  much  to  do  between 
the  printing,  and  the  house,  and  our  dear  mother's  ill 
health,  and  the  baby,  and  the  boys,  who  tear  their 
clothes  in  such  incomprehensible  ways,  that  I  feel 
more  and  more  how  utterly  hopeless  it  is  for  me  ever 
to  be  like  any  of  the  saints  —  unless,  indeed,  it  is 
St.  Christopher,  whose  legend  is  often  a  comfort  to  me, 
as  our  grandmother  used  to  tell  it  to  us,  which  was  in 
this  way:  — 

Offerus  was  a  soldier,  a  heathen,  who  lived  in  the 
land  of  Canaan.  He  had  a  body  twelve  ells  long. 
He  did  not  like  to  obey,  but  to  command.  He  did  not 
care  what  harm  he  did  to  others,  but  lived  a  wild  life, 
attacking  and  plundering  all  who  came  in  his  way. 
He  only  wished  for  one  thing  —  to  sell  his  services  to 
the  Mightiest;  and  as  he  heard  that  the  emperor  was  in 
those  days  the  head  of  Christendom,  he  said,  "Lord 
Emperor,  will  you  have  me?  To  none  less  will  I  sell 
my  heart's  blood." 

The  emperor  looked  at  his  Samson  strength,  his 
giant  chest,  and  his  mighty  fists,  and  he  said,  "If 
thou  wilt  serve  me  for  ever,  Offerus,  I  will  accept 
thee." 

Immediately  the  giant  answered,  "To  serve  you 
for  evsr  is  not  so  easily  promised;  but  as  long  as  I 


else's  story.  73 

am  your  soldier,   none   in   east   or  west  shall  trouble 

you." 

Thereupon  he  went  with  the  emperor  through  all 
the  land,  and  the  emperor  was  delighted  with  him. 
All  the  soldiers,  in  the  combat  as  at  the  wine-cup, 
were  miserable,  helpless  creatures  compared  with  Of- 
ferus. 

Now  the  emperor  had  a  harper  who  sang  from 
morning  till  bed-time;  and  whenever  the  emperor  was 
weary  with  the  march  this  minstrel  had  to  touch  his 
harp-strings.  Once,  at  eventide,  they  pitched  the  tents 
near  a  forest.  The  emperor  ate  and  drank  lustily, 
the  minstrel  sang  a  merry  song.  But  as,  in  his  song, 
he  spoke  of  the  evil  one,  the  emperor  signed  the  cross 
on  his  forehead.  Said  Offerus  aloud  to  his  comrades, 
"What  is  this?  What  jest  is  the  Prince  making  now?" 
Then  the  emperor  said,  "Offerus,  listen:  I  did  it  on 
account  of  the  wicked  fiend,  who  is  said  often  to  haunt 
this  forest  with  great  rage  and  fury,"  That  seemed 
marvellous  to  Offerus,  and  he  said,  scornfully,  to  the 
emperor,  "I  have  a  fancy  for  wild  boars  and  deer. 
Let  us  hunt  in  this  forest."  The  emperor  said  softly, 
"Offerus,  no!  Let  alone  the  chase  in  this  forest,  for 
in  filling  thy  larder  thou  mightst  harm  thy  soul." 
Then  Offerus  made  a  wry  face,  and  said,  "The  grapes 
are  sour;  if  your  highness  is  afraid  of  the  devil,  I  will 
enter  the  service  of  this  lord,  who  is  mightier  than 
you."  Thereupon  he  coolly  demanded  his  pay,  took 
his  departure,  with  no  very  ceremonious  leave-taking, 
and  strode  off  cheerily  into  the  thickest  depths  of  the 
forest. 

In  a  wild  clearing  of  the  forest  he  found  the  devil's 
altar,   built  of  black  cinders;    and  on  it,   in  the  moon- 


74        CHRONICLES   OF  THE   SCHONBEUG-COTTA  FAMILY. 

light  gleamed  the  white  skeletons  of  men  and  horses. 
Offerus  was  in  no  way  terrified,  but  quietly  inspected 
the  skulls  and  bones;  then  he  called  three  times  in  a 
loud  voice  on  the  evil  one,  and  seating  himself  fell 
asleep,  and  soon  began  to  snore.  When  it  was  mid- 
night, the  earth  seemed  to  crack,  and  on  a  coal-black 
horse  he  saw  a  pitch-black  rider,  who  rode  at  him 
furiously,  and  sought  to  bind  him  with  solemn  promises. 
But  Ofierus  said,  "We  shall  see.1'  Then  they  went 
together  through  the  kingdoms  of  the  world,  and 
Ofierus  found  him  a  better  master  than  the  emperor; 
needed  seldom  to  polish  his  armour,  but  had  plenty  of 
feasting  and  fun.  However,  one  day  as  they  went 
along  the  high-road,  three  tall  crosses  stood  before 
them.  Then  the  Black  Prince  suddenly  had  a  cold, 
and  said,  "Let  us  creep  round  by  the  bye-road."  Said 
Offerus,  "Metbinks  you  are  afraid  of  those  gallows 
trees,"  and,  drawing  his  bow,  he  shot  an  arrow  into  the 
middle  cross.  "What  bad  manners!"  said  Satan,  softly; 
"  do  you  not  know  that  he  who  in  his  form  as  a  servant 
is  the  son  of  Mary,  now  exercises  great  power?"  If 
that  is  the  case,"  said  Offerus,  "I  came  to  you  fettered 
by  no  promise;  now  I  will  seek  further  for  the  mightiest, 
whom  only  I  will  serve."  Then  Satan  went  off  with  a 
mocking  laugh,  and  Offerus  went  on  his  way  asking 
every  traveller  he  met  for  the  Son  of  Mary.  But,  alas! 
few  bare  Him  in  their  hearts;  and  no  one  could  tell 
the  giant  where  the  Lord  dwelt,  until  one  evening 
Offerus  found  an  old  pious  hermit,  who  gave  him  a 
night's  lodging  in  his  cell,  and  sent  him  next  morning 
to  the  Carthusian  cloister.  There  the  lord  prior  listened 
to  Offerus,  showed  him  plainly  the  path  of  faith,  and 
told  him  he  must  fast  and  pray,   as  John  the  Baptist 


else's  stouy.  75 

did  of  old  in  the  wilderness.  But  be  replied,  "Locusts 
and  wild  honey,  my  lord,  are  quite  contrary  to  my  na- 
ture, and  I  do  not  know  any  prayers.  I  should  lose 
my  strength  altogether,  and  had  rather  not  go  to  heaven 
at  all  than  in  that  way."  "Reckless  man!"  said  the 
prior.  "However,  you  may  try  another  way:  give  your- 
self up  heartily  to  achieve  some  good  work."  "Ah!  let 
me  hear,"  said  Offerus;  "I  have  strength  for  that." 
"See,  there  flows  a  mighty  river,  which  hinders  pilgrims 
on  their  way  to  Rome.  It  has  neither  ford  nor  bridge. 
Carry  the  faithful  over  on  thy  back."  "If  I  can  please  the 
Saviour  in  that  way,  willingly  will  I  carry  the  travellers 
to  and  fro,"  replied  the  giant.  And  thereupon  he  built 
a  hut  of  reeds,  and  dwelt  thenceforth  among  the  water- 
rats  and  beavers  on  the  borders  of  the  river,  carrying 
pilgrims  over  the  river  cheerfully,  like  a  camel  or  an 
elephant.  But  if  any  one  offered  him  ferry-money,  he 
said,  "I  labour  for  eternal  life."  And  when  now,  after 
many  years,  Offerus's  hair  had  grown  white,  one  stormy 
night  a  plaintive  little  voice  called  to  him,  "Dear,  good, 
tall  Offerus,  carry  me  across."  Offerus  was  tired  and 
sleepy,  but  he  thought  faithfully  of  Jesus  Christ,  and 
with  weary  arms  seizing  the  pine  trunk  which  was  his 
staff  when  the  floods  swelled  high,  he  waded  through 
the  water  and  nearly  reached  the  opposite  bank;  but 
he  saw  no  pilgrim  there,  so  he  thought,  "I  was  dream- 
ing," and  went  back  and  lay  down  to  sleep  again.  But 
scarcely  had  he  fallen  asleep  when  again  came  the  little 
voice,  this  time  very  plaintive  and  touching,  "Offerus, 
good,  dear,  great,  tall  Offerus,  carry  me  across." 
Patiently  the  old  giant  crossed  the  river  again,  but 
neither  man  nor  mouse  was  to  be  seen,  and  he  went 
back  and  lay  down  again,   and  was  soon  fast  asleep; 


76        CHRONICLES   OF  THE  SCHONBERG-COTTA  FAMILY. 

when  once  more  came  the  little  voice,  clear  and  plain- 
tive, and  imploring,  "Good,  dear,  giant  Offerus,  carry 
me  across."  The  third  time  he  seized  his  pine-stem 
and  went  through  the  cold  river.  This  time  he  found 
a  tender,  fair  little  hoy,  with  golden  hair.  In  his  left 
hand  was  the  standard  of  the  Lamb-,  in  his  right,  the 
globe.  He  looked  at  the  giant  with  eyes  full  of  love 
and  trust,  and  Offerus  lifted  him  up  with  two  fingers-, 
but,  when  he  entered  the  river,  the  little  child  weighed 
on  him  like  a  ton.  Heavier  and  heavier  grew  the 
weight,  until  the  water  almost  reached  his  chin;  great 
drops  of  sweat  stood  on  his  brow,  and  he  had  nearly 
sunk  in  the  stream  with  the  little  one.  However,  he 
struggled  through,  and  tottering  to  the  other  side,  set 
the  child  gently  down  on  the  bank,  and  said,  "My  little 
lord,  prithee,  come  not  this  way  again,  for  scarcely 
have  I  escaped  this  time  with  life."  But  the  fair  child 
baptized  Offerus  on  the  spot,  and  said  to  him,  "Know 
all  thy  sins  are  forgiven;  and  although  thy  limbs  tot- 
tered, fear  not,  nor  marvel,  but  rejoice;  thou  hast  car- 
ried the  Saviour  of  the  world!  For  a  token,  plant  thy 
pine-trunk,  so  long  dead  and  leafless,  in  the  earth;  to- 
morrow it  shall  shoot  out  green  twigs.  And  henceforth 
thou  shalt  be  called  not  Offerus,  but  Christopher." 
Then  Christopher  folded  his  hands  and  prayed  and 
said,  "I  feel  my  end  draws  nigh.  My  limbs  tremble; 
my  strength  fails;  and  God  has  forgiven  me  all  my 
sins."  Thereupon  the  child  vanished  in  light;  and 
Christopher  set  his  staff  in  the  earth.  And  so  on  the 
morrow,  it  shot  out  green  leaves  and  red  blossoms  like 
an  almond.  And  three  days  afterwards  the  angels  car- 
ried Christopher  to  Paradise. 

This  is  the  legend  which  gives  me  more  hope  than 


ELSE'S   STORY.  77 

any  other.  How  sweet  it  would  be,  if,  when  I  had 
tried  in  some  humble  way  to  help  one  and  another  on 
the  way  to  the  holy  city,  when  the  last  burden  was 
borne,  and  the  strength  was  failing,  the  holy  child 
should  appear  to  me  and  say,  "Little  Else,  you  have 
done  the  work  I  meant  you  to  do  —  your  sins  are  for- 
given;'1 and  then  the  angels  were  to  come  and  take 
me  up  in  their  arms,  and  carry  me  across  the  dark 
river,  and  my  life  were  to  grow  young  and  bloom 
again  in  Paradise,  like  St.  Christopher's  withered  staff! 

But  to  watch  all  the  long  days  of  life  by  the  river, 
and  carry  the  burdens,  and  not  know  if  we  are  doing 
the  right  thing  after  all  —  that  is  what  is  so  hard! 

Sweet,  when  the  river  was  crossed,  to  find  that  in 
fulfilling  some  little,  humble,  everyday  duty,  one  had 
actually  been  serving  and  pleasing  the  mightiest,  the 
Saviour  of  tbe  world!  But  if  one  could  only  know  it 
whilst  one  was  struggling  through  the  flood,  how  de- 
lightful that  would  be!  How  little  one  would  mind  the 
icy  water,  or  the  aching  shoulders,  or  the  tottering, 
failing  limbs! 

Eisenach,  January  iSOS. 

Fritz  is  at  home  with  us  again.  He  looks  as  much 
a  man  now  as  our  father,  with  his  moustache  and  his 
sword.  How  cheerful  the  sound  of  his  firm  step  and 
his  deep  voice  makes  the  house!  When  I  look  at  him 
sometimes,  as  he  tosses  the  children  and  catches  them 
in  his  arms,  or  as  he  flings  the  balls  with  Christopher 
and  Pollux,  or  shoots  with  bow  and  arrows  in  the 
evenings  at  the  city  games,  my  old  wish  recurs  that  he 
had  lived  in  the  days  when  our  ancestors  dwelt  in  the 
castles  in  Bohemia,  and  that  Fritz  had  been  a  knight, 


78        CHRONICLES   OF  THE   SCHONBERG-COTTA  FAMILY. 

to  ride  at  the  head  of  his  retainers  to  battle  for  some 
good  cause,  —  against  the  Turks,  for  instance,  who  are 
now,  they  say,  threatening  the  empire,  and  all  Christen- 
dom. My  little  world  at  home  is  wide  indeed,  and  full 
enough  for  me,  but  this  burgher  life  seems  narrow  and 
poor  for  him.  I  should  like  him  to  have  to  do  with 
men  instead  of  books.  Women  can  read,  and  learn, 
and  think,  if  they  have  time  (although,  of  course,  not 
as  well  as  men  can)-,  I  have  even  heard  of  women 
writing  books.  St.  Barbara  and  St.  Catherine  under- 
stood astronomy,  and  astrology,  and  philosophy,  and 
could  speak  I  do  not  know  how  many  languages.  But 
they  could  not  have  gone  forth  armed  with  shield  and 
spear  like  St.  George  of  Cappadocia,  to  deliver  the 
fettered  princess  and  slay  the  great  African  dragon. 
And  I  should  like  Fritz  to  do  what  women  cannot  do. 
There  is  such  strength  in  his  light,  agile  frame,  and 
such  power  in  his  dark  eyes-,  although,  certainly  after 
all  he  had  written  to  us  about  his  princely  fare  at  the 
House  at  Erfurt,  where  he  is  a  beneficiary,  our  mother 
and  I  did  not  expect  to  have  seen  his  face  looking  so 
hollow  and  thin. 

He  has  brought  me  back  my  godmother's  gulden. 
He  says  he  is  an  independent  man,  earning  his  own 
livelihood,  and  quite  above  receiving  any  such  gratuities. 
However,  as  I  devoted  it  to  Fritz  I  feel  I  have  a  right 
to  spend  it  on  him,  which  is  a  great  comfort,  because 
I  can  provide  a  better  table  than  we  can  usually  afford, 
during  the  few  days  he  will  stay  with  us,  so  that  he 
may  never  guess  how  pinched  we  often  are. 

I  am  ashamed  of  myself,  but  there  is  something  in 
this  return  of  Fritz  which  disappoints  me.  I  have 
looked  forward  to  it  day  and  night  through  all  these 


else's  story.  79 

two  years  with  such  longing.  I  thought  we  should 
hegin  again  exactly  where  we  left  off.  I  pictured  to 
myself  the  old  daily  life  with  him  going  on  again  as 
of  old.  I  thought  of  our  sitting  in  the  lumber-room, 
and  chatting  over  all  our  perplexities,  our  own  and  the 
family's,  and  pouring  our  hearts  into  each  other's  without 
reserve  or  fear,  so  that  it  was  scarcely  like  talking  at 
all,  but  like  thinking  aloud. 

And,  now,  instead  of  our  being  acquainted  with 
every  detail  of  each  other's  daily  life,  so  that  we  are 
aware  what  we  are  feeling  without  speaking  about  it, 
there  is  a  whole  history  of  new  experience  to  be  nar- 
rated step  by  step,  and  we  do  not  seem  to  know  where 
to  begin.  None  of  the  others  can  feel  this  as  I  do. 
He  is  all  to  the  children  and  our  parents  that  he  ever 
was,  and  why  should  I  expect  more?  Indeed,  I 
scarcely  know  what  I  did  expect,  or  what  I  do  want. 
Why  should  Fritz  be  more  to  me  than  to  any  one  else  ? 
It  is  selfish  to  wish  it,  and  it  is  childish  to  imagine 
that  two  years  could  bring  no  change.  Could  I  have 
wished  it?  Do  I  not  glory  in  his  strength,  and  in  his 
free  and  manly  bearing?  And  could  I  wish  a  student 
at  the  great  University  of  Erfurt,  who  is  soon  to  be  a 
Bachelor  of  Arts,  to  come  and  sit  on  the  piles  of  old 
books  in  our  lumber-room,  and  to  spend  his  time  in 
gossiping  with  me?  Besides,  what  have  I  to  say?  And 
yet,  this  evening,  when  the  twilight-hour  came  round 
for  the  third  time  since  he  returned,  and  he  seemed  to 
forget  all  about  it,  I  could  not  help  feeling  troubled, 
and  so  took  refuge  here  by  myself. 

Fritz  has  been  sitting  in  the  family-room  for  the 
last  hour,  with  all  the  children  round  him,  telling  them 
histories  of  what  the   students   do  at  Erfurt;   of  their 


80        CHRONICLES   OP  THE   SCHONBERG-COTTA  FAMILY. 

poetical  club,  where  they  meet  and  recite  their  own 
verses,  or  translations  of  the  ancient  books  which  have 
been  unburied  lately,  and  yet  are  fresher,  he  says,  than 
any  new  ones,  and  set  every  one  thinking;  of  the 
debating  meeting,  and  the  great  singing  parties  where 
hundreds  of  voices  join,  making  music  fuller  than  any 
organ,  —  in  both  of  which  Martin  Luther  seems  a 
leader  and  a  prince;  and  then  of  the  fights  among  the 
students,  in  which  I  do  not  think  Martin  Luther  has 
joined,  but  which,  certainly,  interest  Christopher  and 
Pollux  more  than  anything  else.  The  boys  were 
standing  on  each  side  of  Fritz,  listening  with  wide  open 
eyes;  Chriemhild  and  Atlantis  had  crept  close  behind 
him  with  their  sewing;  little  Thekla  was  on  his  knee, 
playing  with  his  sword-girdle;  and  little  Eva  was 
perched  in  her  favourite  place  on  the  window-sill,  in 
front  of  him.  At  first  she  kept  at  a  distance  from  him, 
and  said  nothing;  not,  I  think,  from  shyness,  for  I  do 
not  believe  that  child  is  afraid  of  any  one  or  any  thing, 
but  from  a  quaint  way  she  has  of  observing  people,  as 
if  she  were  learning  them  through  like  a  new  language, 
or,  like  a  sovereign  making  sure  of  the  character  of  a 
new  subject  before  she  admits  him  into  her  service. 
The  idea  of  the  little  creature  treating  our  Fritz  in 
that  grand  style!  But  it  is  of  no  use  resisting  it.  He 
has  passed  through  his  probation  like  the  rest  of  us, 
and  is  as  much  flattered  as  the  grandmother,  or  any 
of  us,  at  being  admitted  into  her  confidence.  When  I 
left,  Eva,  who  had  been  listening  for  some  time  with 
great  attention  to  his  student-stories,  had  herself  be- 
come the  chief  speaker,  and  the  whole  party  were 
attending  with  riveted  interest  while  she  related  to  them 
her  favourite  Legend  of  St.  Catherine.     They  had  all 


ELSE'S  STORY.  81 

heard  it  before,  but  in  some  way  when  Eva  tells  these 
histories  they  always  seem  new.  I  suppose  it  is  be- 
cause she  believes  them  so  fervently  ;  it  is  not  as  if  she 
were  repeating  something  she  had  heard,  but  quietly 
narrating  something  she  has  seen,  much  as  one  would 
imagine  an  angel  might  who  had  been  watching  unseen 
while  it  all  happened.  And,  meantime,  her  eyes,  when 
she  raises  them,  with  their  fringe  of  long  lashes,  seem 
to  look  at  once  into  your  heart  and  into  heaven. 

No  wonder  Fritz  forgets  the  twilight-hour.  But  it 
is  strange  he  has  never  once  asked  about  our  chronicle. 
Of  that,  however,  I  am  glad,  because  I  would  not  for 
the  world  show  him  the  narrative  of  our  struggles. 

Can  it  be  possible  I  am  envious  of  little  Eva  — 
dear,  little,  loving,  orphan  Eva?  I  do  rejoice  that  all 
the  world  should  love  him.  Yet,  it  was  so  happy  to 
be  Fritz's  only  friend;  and  why  should  a  little  stranger 
child  steal  my  precious  twilight-hour  from  me? 

"Well,  1  suppose  Aunt  Agnes  was  right,  and  I 
made  an  idol  of  Fritz ,  and  God  was  angry,  and  I  am 
being  punished.  But  the  saints  seemed  to  find  a  kind 
of  sacred  pleasure  in  their  punishments,  and  I  do  not; 
nor  do  I  feel  at  all  the  better  for  them,  but  the  worse 
—  which  is  another  proof  how  hopeless  it  is  for  me  to 
try  to  be  a  saint. 

Eisenach,  February. 

As  I  wrote  those  last  words  in  the  deepening  twi- 
light, two  strong  hands  were  laid  very  gently  on  my 
shoulders,  and  a  voice  said  — 

"Sister  Else,  why  can  you  not  show  me  your  chro- 
nicle?" 

I  could  make  no  reply. 

"You  are  convicted,"  rejoined  the  same  voice. 

Schonlerg-Cotta  Family.  I.  6 


82        CHRONICLES   OP  TELE  SCHONBERG-COTTA  FAMILY. 

"Do  you  think  I  do  not  know  where  that  gulden 
came  from?   Let  me  see  your  godmother's  purse." 

I  hegan  to  feel  the  tears  choking  me;  hut  Fritz  did 
not  seem  to  notice  them. 

"Else,"  he  said,  "you  may  practise  your  little  de- 
ceptive arts  on  all  the  rest  of  the  family,  but  they  will 
not  do  with  me.  Do  you  think  you  will  ever  persuade 
me  you  have  grown  thin  by  eating  sausages  and  cakes 
and  wonderful  holiday  puddings  every  day  of  your 
life?  Do  you  think  the  hungry  delight  in  the  eyes  of 
those  boys  was  occasioned  by  their  everyday,  ordinary 
fare?  Do  you  think,"  he  added,  taking  my  hands 
in  one  of  his,  "I  did  not  see  how  blue  and  cold,  and 
covered  with  chilblains,  these  little  hands  were,  which 
piled  up  the  great  logs  on  the  hearth  when  I  came  in 
this  morning?" 

Of  course  I  could  do  nothing  but  put  my  head  on 
his  shoulder  and  cry  quietly.  It  was  of  no  use  deny- 
ing anything.  Then  he  added  rapidly,  in  a  low  deep 
voice  — 

"Do  you  think  I  could  help  seeing  our  mother  at 
her  old  devices,  pretending  she  had  no  appetite,  and 
liked  nothing  so  much  as  bones  and  sinews?" 

"0  Fritz,"  I  sobbed,  "I  cannot  help  it.  What  am 
I  to  do?" 

"At  least,"  he  said,  more  cheerfully,  "promise  me, 
little  woman,  you  will  never  make  a  distinguished 
stranger  of  your  brother  again,  and  endeavour  by  all 
kinds  of  vain  and  deceitful  devices  to  draw  the  whole 
weight  of  the  family  cares  on  your  own  shoulders." 

"Do  you  think  it  is  a  sin  I  ought  to  confess,  Fritz?" 
1  said;  "I  did  not  mean  it  deceitfully;  but  I  am  always 


else's  story.  S3 

making  such  blunders  about  right  and  wrong.     What 
can  I  do?" 

"Does  Aunt  Ursula  know?"  he  asked  rather  fiercely. 

"No,  the  mother  will  not  let  me  tell  any  one.  She 
thinks  they  would  reflect  on  our  father;  and  he  told 
her  only  last  week,  he  has  a  plan  about  a  new  way  of 
smelting  lead,  which  is,  I  think,  to  turn  it  all  into 
silver.  That  would  certainly  be  a  wonderful  discovery; 
and  he  thinks  the  Elector  would  take  it  up  at  once, 
and  we  should  probably  have  to  leave  Eisenach  and 
live  near  the  Electoral  Court.  Perhaps  even  the  Em- 
peror would  require  us  to  communicate  the  secret  to 
him,  and  then  we  should  have  to  leave  the  country 
altogether;  for  you  know  there  are  great  lead-mines  in 
Spain;  and  if  once  people  could  make  silver  out  of 
lead,  it  would  be  much  easier  and  safer  than  going 
across  the  great  ocean  to  procure  the  native  silver  from 
the  Indian  savages." 

Fritz  drew  a  long  breath. 

"And  meantime?"  he  said. 

"Well,  meantime?"  I  said,  "it  is,  of  course,  some- 
times a  little  difficult  to  get  on." 

He  mused  a  little  while ,  and  then  he  said  — 

"Little  Else,  I  have  thought  of  a  plan  which  may, 
I  think,  bring  us  a  few  guldens  —  until  the  process  of 
transmuting  lead  into  silver  is  completed." 

"Of  course,"  I  said,  "after  that  we  shall  want  no- 
thing, but  be  able  to  give  to  those  who  do  want.  And 
oh,  Fritz!  how  well  we  shall  understand  how  to  help 
people  who  are  poor.  Do  you  think  that  is  why  God 
lets  us  be  so  poor  ourselves  so  long,  and  never  seems 
to  hear  our  prayers?" 

6* 


84        CHRONICLES   OF  THE  SCHONBERG-COTTA  FAMILY. 

"It  would  be  pleasant  to  think  so,  Else,"  said  Fritz, 
gravely,  "but  it  is  very  difficult  to  understand  how  to 
please  God,  or  how  to  make  our  prayers  reach  him  at 
all  —  at  least  when  we  are  so  often  feeling  and  doing- 
wrong." 

It  cheered  me  to  see  that  Fritz  does  not  despair  of 
the  great  invention  succeeding  one  day.  He  did  not 
tell  me  what  his  own  plan  is. 

Does  Fritz,  then,  also  feel  so  sinful  and  so  perplexed 
how  to  please  God?  Perhaps  a  great  many  people  feel 
the  same.  It  is  very  strange.  If  it  had  only  pleased 
God  to  make  it  a  little  plainer!  I  wonder  if  that  book 
Eva  lost  would  tell  us  anything! 

After  that  evening  the  barrier  between  me  and  Fritz 
was  of  course  quite  gone,  and  we  seemed  closer  than 
ever.  We  had  delightful  twilight  talks  in  our  lumber- 
room,  and  I  love  him  more  than  ever.  So  that  Aunt 
Agnes  would,  I  suppose,  think  me  more  of  an  idolater 
than  before.  But  it  is  very  strange  that  idolatry  should 
seem  to  do  me  so  much  good.  I  seem  to  love  all  the 
world  better  for  loving  Fritz,  and  to  find  everything 
easier  to  bear,  by  having  him  to  unburden  everything 
on,  so  that  I  had  never  fewer  little  sins  to  confess  than 
during  the  two  weeks  Fritz  was  at  home.  If  God  had 
only  made  loving  brothers  and  sisters  and  the  people 
at  home  the  way  to  please  him,  instead  of  not  loving 
them  too  much,  or  leaving  them  all  to  bury  one's  self 
in  a  cold  convent,  like  Aunt  Agnes! 

Little  Eva  actually  persuaded  Fritz  to  begin  teach- 
ing her  the  Latin  grammar!  I  suppose  she  wishes  to 
be  like  her  beloved  St.  Catherine,  who  was  so  learned. 
And  she  says  all  the  holy  books,  the  prayers  and  the 
hymns,   are  in  Latin,   so  that  she  thinks  it  must  be  a 


ELSE  S   SXOKY. 


85 


language  God  particularly  loves.  She  asked  me  a  few- 
days  since  if  they  speak  Latin  in  heaven. 

Of  course  I  could  not  tell.  I  told  her  I  believed 
the  Bible  was  originally  written  in  two  other  languages, 
the  languages  of  the  Greeks  and  the  Jews,  and  that  I 
had  heard  some  one  say  Adam  and  Eve  spoke  the  Jews' 
language  in  paradise,  which  I  suppose  God  taught 
them. 

But  I  have  been  thinking  over  it  since,  and  I  should 
not  wonder  if  Eva  is  right. 

Because,  unless  Latin  is  the  language  of  the  saints 
and  holy  angels  in  heaven,  why  should  God  wish  the 
priests  to  speak  it  everywhere,  and  the  people  to  say 
the  Ave  and  Paternoster  in  it?  We  should  understand 
it  all  so  much  better  in  German;  but  of  course  if  Latin 
is  the  language  of  the  blessed  saints  and  angels,  that 
is  a  reason  for  it.  If  we  do  not  always  understand, 
they  do,  which  is  a  great  comfort.  Only  I  think  it  is  a 
very  good  plan  of  little  Eva's  to  try  and  learn  Latin; 
and  when  I  have  more  time  to  be  religious,  perhaps  I 
may  try  also. 


86        CHRONICLES   OF  TTTE   SCHONBERGCOTTA   FAMILY. 


IV. 
EXTRACTS  FROM   FREBDRICH'S   CHRONICLE. 

Ekfukt,  1505. 

The  university  seems  rather  a  cold  world  after  the 
dear  old  home  at  Eisenach.  But  it  went  to  my  heart 
to  see  how  our  mother  and  Else  struggle,  and  how  worn 
and  thin  they  look.  Happily  for  them,  they  have  still 
hope  in  the  great  invention,  and  I  would  not  take  it 
away  tor  the  world.  But  meantime,  I  must  at  once  do 
something  to  help.  I  can  sometimes  save  some  viands 
from  my  meals,  which  are  portioned  out  to  us  liberally 
on  this  foundation,  and  sell  them;  and  I  cau  occa- 
sionally earn  a  little  by  copying  themes  for  the  richer 
students,  or  sermons  and  postils  for  the  monks.  The 
printing-press  has  certainly  made  that  means  of  mainten- 
ance more  precarious;  but  printed  books  are  still  very 
dear,  and  also  very  large,  and  the  priests  are  olten 
glad  of  small  copies  of  fragments  of  the  postils,  or  ora- 
tions of  the  fathers,  written  off  in  a  small,  clear  hand, 
to  take  with  them  on  their  circuits  around  the  villages. 
There  is  also  writing  to  be  done  for  the  lawyers,  so  that 
I  do  not  despair  of  earning  something:  and  if  my  stu- 
dies are  retarded  a  little,  it  does  not  so  much  matter. 
It  is  not  for  me  to  aspire  to  great  things,  unless,  indeed, 
they  can  be  reached  by  small  and  patient  steps.  1  have 
a  work  to  do  for  the  family.  My  youth  must  be  given 
to  supporting  them  by  the  first  means  I  can  find.  If 
I    succeed,   perhaps   Christopher  or  Pollux   will   have 


FRIEDRICH  S   STORY. 


87 


leisure  to  aim  higher  than  I  can;  or,  perhaps,  in  middle 
and  later  life  I  myself  shall  have  leisure  to  pursue  the 
studies  of  these  great  old  classics,  which  seem  to  make 
the  horizon  of  our  thoughts  so  wide,  and  the  world  so 
glorious  and  large,  and  life  so  deep.  It  would  certainly 
be  a  great  delight  to  devote  one's  self,  as  Martin  Luther 
is  now  able  to  do,  to  literature  and  philosophy.  His  career 
is  opening  nobly.  This  spring  he  has  taken  his  degree 
as  Master  of  Arts,  and  he  has  been  lecturing  on  Aris- 
totle's physics  and  logic.  He  has  great  power  of  mak- 
ing dim  things  clear,  and  old  things  fresh.  His  lec- 
tures are  crowded.  He  is  also  studying  law,  in  order 
to  qualify  himself  for  some  office  in  the  State.  His 
parents  (judging  from  his  father's  letters)  seem  to  centre 
all  their  hopes  in  him;  and  it  is  almost  the  same  here 
at  the  university.  Great  things  are  expected  of  him; 
indeed  there  scarcely  seems  any  career  that  is  not  open 
to  him.  And  he  is  a  man  of  such  heart,  as  well  as  in- 
tellect, that  he  seems  to  make  all  the  university,  the 
professors  as  well  as  the  students,  look  on  him  as  a 
kind  of  possession  of  tbeir  own.  All  seem  to  feel  a 
property  in  his  success.  Just  as  it  was  with  our  little 
circle  at  Eisenach,  so  it  is  with  the  great  circle  at  the 
university.  He  is  our  Master  Martin;  and  in  every 
step  of  his  ascent  we  ourselves  feel  a  little  higher.  I 
wonder,  if  his  fame  should  indeed  spread  as  we  an- 
ticipate, if  it  will  be  the  same  one  day  with  all  Ger- 
many? if  the  whole  land  will  say  exultingly  by-and- 
by  —  our  Martin  Luther? 

Not  that  he  is  without  enemies;  his  temper  is  too 
hot  and  his  heart  too  warm  for  that  negative  distinction 
of  phlegmatic  negative  natures. 


CHRONICLES   OF   THE   SCHONBERG-OOTTA   FAMILY. 


June,  1505. 

Martin  Luther  came  to  me  a  few  days  since,  look- 
ing terribly  agitated.  His  friend  Alexius  has  been 
assassinated,  and  be  takes  it  exceedingly  to  heart;  not 
only,  I  tbink,  because  of  tbe  loss  of  one  be  loved,  but 
because  it  brings  deatb  so  terribly  near,  and  awakens 
again  those  questionings  wbicb  I  know  are  in  the  depths 
of  his  heart,  as  well  as  of  mine,  about  God,  and  judg- 
ment, and  the  dark,  dread  future  before  us,  which  we 
cannot  solve,  yet  cannot  escape  nor  forget. 

To-day  we  met  again,  and  he  was  full  of  a  book 
he  had  discovered  in  tbe  university  library,  where  he 
spends  most  of  his  leisure  hours.  It  was  a  Latin  Bible, 
which  he  had  never  seen  before  in  his  life.  He  mar- 
velled greatly  to  see  so  much  more  in  it  than  in  the 
Evangelia  read  in  the  churches,  or  in  the  Collections 
of  Homilies.  He  was  called  away  to  lecture,  or,  he 
said,  he  could  have  read  on  for  hours.  Especially  one 
history  seems  to  have  impressed  him  deeply.  It  was 
in  the  Old  Testament.  It  was  the  story  of  the  child 
Samuel  and  his  mother  Hannah.  "He  read  it  quickly 
through,"  be  said,  "with  hearty  delight  and  joy;  and 
because  this  was  all  new  to  him,  he  began  to  wish  from 
the  bottom  of  his  heart  that  God  would  one  day  bestow 
on  him  such  a  book  for  his  own." 

I  suppose  it  is  the  thought  of  his  own  pious  mother 
which  makes  this  history  interest  him  so  peculiarly. 
It  is  indeed  a  beautiful  history,  as  he  told  it  me,  and 
makes  one  almost  wish  one  had  been  born  in  the  times 
of  the  old  Hebrew  monarchy.  It  seems  as  if  God 
listened  so  graciously  and  readily  then  to  that  poor 
sorrowful  woman's  prayers.     And   if  we  could  only, 


FRIEDRICH,S    STORY.  89 

each  of  us,  hear  that  voice  from  heaven,  how  joyful  it 
would  be  to  reply,  like  that  blessed  child,  "Speak, 
Lord,  for  thy  servant  heareth;"  and  then  to  learn, 
without  possibility  of  mistake,  what  God  really  requires 
of  each  of  us.  I  suppose,  however,  the  monks  do  feel 
as  sure  of  their  vocation  as  the  holy  child  of  old,  when 
they  leave  home  and  the  world  for  the  service  of  the 
Church.  It  would  be  a  great  help  if  other  people  had 
vocations  to  their  various  works  in  life,  like  the  prophet 
Samuel  and  (I  suppose)  the  monks,  that  we  might  all 
go  on  fearlessly,  with  a  firm  step,  each  in  his  appointed 
path,  and  feel  sure  that  we  are  doing  the  right  thing, 
instead  of  perhaps  drawing  down  judgments  on  those 
we  would  die  to  serve,  by  our  mistakes  and  sins.  It 
can  hardly  be  intended  that  all  men  should  be  monks 
and  nuns.  Would  to  Heaven,  therefore,  that  laymen 
had  also  their  vocation,  instead  of  this  terrible  uncer- 
tainty and  doubt  that  will  shadow  the  heart  at  times, 
that  we  may  have  missed  our  path  (as  I  did  that  night 
in  the  snow-covered  forest),  and,  like  Cain,  be  flying 
from  the  presence  of  God,  and  gathering  on  us  and 
ours  his  curse. 

July  1i,  4o05. 

There  is  a  great  gloom  over  the  university.  The 
plague  is  among  us.  Many  are  lying  dead  who,  only 
last  week,  were  full  of  youth  and  hope.  Numbers  of 
the  professors,  masters,  and  students  have  fled  to  their 
homes,  or  to  various  villages  in  the  nearest  reaches  of 
the  Thuringian  forest.  The  churches  are  thronged  at 
all  the  services.  The  priests  and  monks  (those  who 
remain  in  the  infected  city)  take  advantage  of  the 
terror  the  presence  of  the  pestilence  excites,  to  remind 


90        CHRONICLES   OP  THE  SCHONBERG-COTTA  FAMILY. 

people  of  the  more  awful  terrors  of  that  dreadful  day 
of  judgment  and  wrath  which  no  one  will  be  able  to 
flee.  Women,  and  sometimes  men,  are  borne  fainting 
from  the  churches,  and  often  fall  at  once  under  the  in- 
fection, and  never  are  seen  again.  Martin  Luther 
seems  much  troubled  in  mind.  This  epidemic,  follow- 
ing so  close  on  the  assassination  of  his  friend,  seems  to 
overwhelm  him.  But  he  does  not  talk  of  leaving  the 
city.  Perhaps  the  terrors  which  weigh  most  on  him 
are  those  the  preachers  recall  so  vividly  to  us  just  now, 
from  which  there  is  no  flight  by  change  of  place,  but 
only  by  change  of  life.  During  this  last  week,  espe- 
cially since  he  was  exposed  to  a  violent  thunder-storm 
on  the  high  road  near  Erfurt,  he  has  seemed  strangely 
altered.  A  deep  gloom  is  on  his  face,  and  he  seems 
to  avoid  his  old  friends.  I  have  scarcely  spoken  to 
him. 

July  1i. 

To-day,  to  my  great  surprise,  Martin  has  invited 
me  and  several  other  of  his  friends  to  meet  at  his 
rooms  on  the  day  after  to-morrow,  to  pass  a  social 
evening  in  singing  and  feasting.  The  plague  has 
abated;  yet  I  rather  wonder  at  any  one  thinking  of 
merry-making  yet.  They  say,  however,  that  a  merry 
heart  is  the  best  safe-guard. 

July  17. 

The  secret  of  Martin  Luther's  feast  is  opened  now. 
The  whole  university  is  in  consternation.  He  has 
decided  on  becoming  a  monk.  Many  think  it  is  a 
sudden  impulse,  which  may  yet  pass  away.  I  do  not. 
I  believe  it  is  the  result  of  the  conflicts  of  years,   and 


fkibdrich's  story.  91 

that  he  has  only  yielded,  in  this  act,  to  convictions 
which  have  heen  recurring  to  him  continually  during 
all  his  hrilliant  university  career. 

Never  did  he  seem  more  animated  than  yesterday 
evening.  The  hours  flew  by  in  eager,  cheerful  con- 
versation. A  weight  seemed  removed  from  us.  The 
pestilence  was  departing;  the  professors  and  students 
were  returning.  We  felt  life  resuming  its  old  course, 
and  ventured  once  more  to  look  forward  with  hope. 
Many  of  us  had  completed  our  academical  course,  and 
were  already  entering  the  larger  world  beyond  —  the 
university  of  life.  Some  of  us  had  appointments  al- 
ready promised,  and  most  of  us  had  hopes  of  great 
things  in  the  future;  the  less  definite  the  prospects, 
perhaps  the  more  brilliant.  Martin  Luther  did  not 
hazard  any  speculations  as  to  his  future  career;  but 
that  surprised  none  of  us.  His  fortune,  we  said,  was 
insured  already;  and  many  a  jesting  claim  was  put  in 
for  his  future  patronage,  when  he  should  be  a  great 
man. 

We  had  excellent  music  also,  as  always  at  any 
social  gathering  where  Martin  Luther  is.  His  clear, 
true  voice  was  listened  to  with  applause  in  many  a 
well-known  song,  and  echoed  in  joyous  choruses  after- 
ward by  the  whole  party.  So  the  evening  passed, 
until  the  university  hour  for  repose  had  nearly  arrived; 
when  suddenly,  in  the  silence  after  the  last  note  of  the 
last  chorus  had  died  away,  he  bid  us  all  farewell;  for 
on  the  morrow,  he  said,  he  purposed  to  enter  the 
Augustinian  monastery  as  a  novice!  At  first,  some 
treated  this  as  a  jest;  but  his  look  and  bearing  soon 
banished  that  idea.  Then  all  earnestly  endeavoured 
to  dissuade  him  from  his  purpose.     Some  spoke  of  the 


92        CHRONICLES   OF  THE  SCH02JBEEGCOTTA  FAMILY. 

expectations  the  university  had  formed  of  him  —  others, 
of  the  career  in  the  world  open  to  him;  but  at  all  this 
he  only  smiled.  When,  however,  one  of  us  reminded 
him  of  his  father,  and  the  disappointment  it  might 
cause  in  his  home,  I  noticed  that  a  change  came  over 
his  face,  and  I  thought  there  was  a  slight  quiver  on 
his  lip.  But  all,  —  friendly  remark,  calm  remonstrance, 
fervent,  affectionate  entreaties,  —  all  were  unavailing. 

"To-day,"  he  said,  "you  see  me;  after  this  you  will 
see  me  no  more." 

Thus  we  separated.  But  this  morning,  when  some 
of  his  nearest  friends  went  to  his  rooms  early,  with  the 
faint  hope  of  yet  inducing  him  to  listen,  while  we 
pressed  on  him  the  thousand  unanswerable  arguments 
which  had  occurred  to  us  since  we  parted  from  him, 
his  rooms  were  empty,  and  he  was  nowhere  to  be 
found.  To  all  our  inquiries  we  received  no  reply  but 
that  Master  Martin  had  gone  that  morning,  before  it 
was  light,  to  the  Augustiuian  cloister. 

Thither  we  followed  him,  and  knocked  loudly  at 
the  heavy  convent  gates.  After  some  minutes  they 
were  slightly  opened,  and  a  sleepy  porter  appeared. 

"Is  Martin  Luther  here*?"  we  asked. 

"He  is  here!"  was  the  reply,  not,  we  thought, 
without  a  little  triumph  in  the  tone. 

"We  wish  to  speak  with  him,"  demanded  one 
of  us. 

"No  one  is  to  speak  with  him,"  was  the  grim  re- 
joinder. 

"Until  when?"  we  asked. 

There  was  a  little  whispering  inside,  and  then  came 
the  decisive  answer,  "Not  for  a  month  at  least." 

We  would  have  lingered  to  parley  further,  but  the 


priedrich's  story.  93 

heavy  nailed  doors  were  closed  against  us,  we  heard 
the  massive  holts  rattle  as  they  were  drawn,  and  all 
our  assaults  with  fists  or  iron  staffs  on  the  convent 
gates,  from  that  moment  did  not  awaken  another  sound 
within. 

"Dead  to  the  world,  indeed!"  murmured  one  at 
length-,  uthe  grave  could  not  he  more  silent." 

Baffled,  and  hoarse  with  shouting,  we  wandered 
back  again  to  Martin  Luther's  rooms.  The  old  familiar 
rooms,  where  we  had  so  lately  spent  hours  with  him 
in  social  converse ;  where  I  and  many  of  us  had  spent 
so  many  an  hour  in  intimate,  affectionate  intercourse, 
—  his  presence  would  be  there  no  more  •,  and  the  un- 
altered aspect  of  the  mute,  inanimate  things  only  made 
the  emptiness  and  change  more  painful  by  the  con- 
trast. 

And  yet,  when  we  began  to  examine  more  closely, 
the  aspect  of  many  things  was  changed.  His  flute  and 
lute,  indeed,  lay  on  the  table,  just  as  he  had  left  them 
on  the  previous  evening.  But  the  books  —  scholastic, 
legal,  and  classical  —  were  piled  up  carefully  in  one 
corner,  and  directed  to  the  booksellers.  In  looking 
over  the  well-known  volumes,  I  only  missed  two,  Virgil 
andPlautus;  I  suppose  he  took  these  with  him.  Whilst 
we  were  looking  at  a  parcel  neatly  rolled  up  in  another 
place,  the  old  man  who  kept  his  rooms  in  order  came 
in,  and  said,  "That  is  Master  Martin's  master's  robe, 
his  holiday  attire,  and  his  master's  ring.  They  are  to 
be  sent  to  his  parents  at  Mansfeld." 

A  choking  sensation  came  over  me  as  I  thought  of 
the  father  who  had  struggled  so  hard  to  maintain  his 
son,  and  had  hoped  so  much  from  him,  receiving  that 
packet.     Not    from   the   dead.     Worse   than   from   the 


94        CHRONICLES   OP  THE  SCHONBEKGCOTTA  FAMILY. 

dead,  it  seemed  to  me.  Deliberately  self-entombed; 
deliberately  with  bis  own  bands  building  up  a  barrier 
between  bim  and  all  who  love  him  best.  With  the 
dead,  if  they  are  happy,  we  may  hold  communion  — 
at  least  the  Creed  speaks  of  the  communion  of  saints; 
we  may  pray  to  them;  or,  at  the  worst,  we  may  pray 
for  them.  But  between  the  son  in  the  convent  and  the 
father  at  Mansfeld  the  barrier  is  not  merely  one  of 
stone  and  earth.  It  is  of  the  impenetrable  iron  of  will 
and  conscience.  It  would  be  a  temptation  now  for 
Martin  Luther  to  pour  out  his  heart  in  affectionate 
words  to  father,  mother,  or  friend. 

And  yet,  if  he  is  right,  —  if  the  flesh  is  only  to 
be  subdued,  if  God  is  only  to  be  pleased,  if  heaven  is 
only  to  be  won  in  this  way,  —  it  is  of  little  moment 
indeed  what  the  suffering  may  be  to  us  or  any  be- 
longing to  us  in  this  fleeting  life,  down  which  the  grim 
gates  of  death  which  close  it,  ever  cast  their  long 
shadow. 

May  not  Martin  serve  his  family  better  in  the 
cloister  than  at  the  emperor's  court,  for  is  not  the 
cloister  the  court  of  a  palace  more  imperial  ?  —  we 
may  say,  the  very  audience-chamber  of  the  King  of 
kings.  Besides,  if  be  had  a  vocation,  what  curse  might 
not  follow  despising  it  ?  Happy  for  those  whose  voca- 
tion is  so  clear  that  they  dare  not  disobey  it;  or  whose 
hearts  are  so  pure  that  they  would  not  if  they  dared ! 

July  m. 

These  two  days  the  university  has  been  in  a  fer- 
ment at  the  disappearance  of  Martin  Luther.  Many 
are  indignant  with  him,  and  more  with  the  monks, 
who ,  they  say ,  have  taken  advantage  of  a  fervent  im- 


friedrich's  story.  95 

piilse,  and  drawn  him  into  their  net.  Some,  however, 
especially  those  of  the  school  of  Mutianus  —  the  Hu- 
manists —  laugh,  and  say  there  are  ways  through  the 
cloister  to  the  court,  —  and  even  to  the  tiara.  But 
those  misunderstand  Martin.  We  who  know  him  are 
only  too  sure  that  he  will  be  a  true  monk,  and  that 
for  him  there  is  no  gate  from  the  cloister  back  into  the 
world. 

It  appears  now  that  he  had  been  meditating  this 
step  more  than  a  fortnight. 

On  the  first  of  this  month  (July)  he  was  walking 
on  the  road  between  Erfurt  and  Stotterheim,  when  a 
thunder-storm  which  had  been  gathering  over  the  Thu- 
ringian  forest,  and  weighing  with  heavy  silence  on  the 
plague-laden  air,  suddenly  burst  over  his  head.  He 
was  alone,  and  far  from  shelter.  Peal  followed  peal, 
succeeded  by  terrible  silences ;  the  forked  lightning 
danced  wildly  around  him,  until  at  length  one  terrific 
flash  tore  up  the  ground  at  his  feet,  and  nearly  stunned 
him.  He  was  alone,  and  far  from  shelter;  he  felt  his 
soul  equally  alone  and  unsheltered.  The  thunder  seemed 
to  him  the  angry  voice  of  an  irresistible,  offended  God. 
The  next  flash  might  wither  his  body  to  ashes,  and 
smite  his  soul  into  the  flames  it  so  terribly  recalled ; 
and  the  next  thunder-peal  which  followed  might  echo 
like  the  trumpet  of  doom  over  him  lying  unconscious, 
deaf,  and  mute  in  death.  Unconscious  and  mute  as  to 
his  body !  but  who  could  imagine  to  what  terrible  in- 
tensity of  conscious,  everlasting  anguish  his  soul  might 
have  awakened;  what  wailings  might  echo  around  his 
lost  spirit,  what  cries  of  unavailing  entreaty  he  might 
be  pouring  forth?  Unavailing  then!  not,  perhaps  wholly 
unavailing  now!  He  fell  on  his  knees, —  he  prostrated 


90        CHRONICLES  OE  THE  SCHONBERG-COTTA  FAMILY. 

himself  on  the  earth,  and  cried  in  his  anguish  and 
terror,  "Help,  beloved  St.  Anne,  and  I  will  straightway 
become  a  monk." 

The  storm  rolled  slowly  away;  but  the  irrevocable 
words  had  beeu  spoken,  and  the  peals  of  thunder,  as 
they  rumbled  more  and  more  faintly  in  the  distance, 
echoed  on  his  heart  like  the  dirge  of  all  his  worldly 
life. 

He  reached  Erfurt  in  safety,  and,  distrustful  of  his 
own  steadfastness,  breathed  nothing  of  his  purpose  ex- 
cept to  those  who  would,  he  thought,  sustain  him  in  it. 
This  was  no  doubt  the  cause  of  his  absent  and  estranged 
looks,  and  of  his  avoiding  us  during  that  fortnight. 

lie  confided  his  intention  first  to  Andrew  Staffel- 
stein,  the  rector  of  the  university,  who  applauded  and 
encouraged  him,  and  took  him  at  once  to  the  new 
Franciscan  cloister.  The  monks  received  him  with  de- 
light, and  urged  his  immediately  joining  their  order. 
He  told  them  he  must  first  acquaint  his  father  of  his 
purpose,  as  an  act  of  confidence  only  due  to  a  parent 
who  had  denied  himself  so  much  and  toiled  so  hard  to 
maintain  his  son  liberally  at  the  university.  But  the 
rector  and  the  monks  rejoined  that  he  must  not  consult 
with  flesh  and  blood;  he  must  "forsake  father  and  mo- 
ther, and  steal  away  to  the  cross  of  Christ."  "Whoso 
putteth  his  hand  to  the  plough  and  looketh  back,"  said 
they,  "is  not  worthy  of  the  kingdom  of  God."  To 
remain  in  the  world  was  peril.  To  return  to  it  was 
perdition. 

A  few  religious  women  to  whom  the  rector  men- 
tioned Martin's  intentions,  confirmed  him  in  them  with 
fervent  words  of  admiration  and  encouragement. 

Did  not  one  of  them  relent,   and  take  pity  on  his 


FRIEDRICH  S   STORY. 


97 


mother  and  his  father?  And  yet,  I  doubt  if  Martin's 
mother  would  have  interposed  one  word  of  remonstrance 
between  him  and  the  cloister.  She  is  a  very  religious 
woman.  To  offer  her  son,  her  pride,  to  God,  would 
have  been  offering  the  dearest  part  of  herself;  and 
women  have  a  strength  in  self-sacrifice,  and  a  mys- 
terious joy,  which  I  feel  no  doubt  would  have  carried 
her  through. 

With  Martin's  father  it  would  no  doubt  have  been 
different.  He  has  not  a  good  opinion  of  the  monks, 
and  he  has  a  very  strong  sense  of  paternal  and  filial 
duty.  He,  the  shrewd,  hardworking,  successful  pea- 
sant, looks  on  the  monks  as  a  company  of  drones,  who, 
in  imagining  they  are  giving  up  the  delights  of  the 
world,  are  often  only  giving  up  its  duties.  He  was 
content  to  go  through  any  self-denial  and  toil  that 
Martin,  the  pride  of  the  whole  family,  might  have 
scope  to  develop  his  abilities.  But  to  have  the  fruit 
of  all  his  counsel,  and  care,  and  work  buried  in  a  con- 
vent, will  be  very  bitter  to  him.  It  was  terrible  ad- 
vice for  the  rector  to  give  a  son.  And  yet,  no  doubt, 
God  has  the  first  claim-,  and  to  expose  Martin  to  any 
influence  which  might  have  induced  him  to  give  up 
his  vocation,  would  have  been  perilous  indeed.  No 
doubt  the  conflict  in  Martin's  heart  was  severe  enough 
as  it  was.  His  nature  is  so  affectionate,  his  sense  of 
filial  duty  so  strong,  and  his  honour  and  love  for  his 
parents  so  deep.  Since  the  step  is  taken,  Holy  Mary 
aid  him  not  to  draw  back ! 

December,  1503. 

This  morning  I  saw  a  sight  I  never  thought  to  have 
seen.     A  monk,   in   the  grey   frock   and    cowl  of  the 
SchSnberg-Cotta  Family.  1,  7 


D8        CHRONICLES   OF  THE  SCHONBERG-COTTA  FAMILY. 

Augustinians ,  was  pacing  slowly  through  the  streets 
with  a  heavy  sack  on  his  shoulders.  The  ground  was 
covered  with  snow,  his  feet  were  bare;  but  it  was  no 
unfrequent  sight,  and  I  was  idly  and  half-unconsciously 
watching  him  pause  at  door  after  door,  and  humbly 
receiving  any  contributions  that  were  offered,  stow 
them  away  in  the  convent-sack,  when  at  length  he 
stopped  at  the  door  of  the  house  I  was  in,  and  then, 
as  his  face  turned  up  towards  the  window  where  I  stood, 
I  caught  the  eye  of  Martin  Luther! 

I  hurried  to  the  door  with  a  loaf  in  my  hand,  and, 
before  offering  it  to  him,  would  have  embraced  him  as 
of  old ;  but  he  bowed  low  as  he  received  the  bread, 
until  his  forehead  nearly  touched  the  ground,  and 
murmuring  a  Latin  "Gratias,"  would  have  passed  on. 

"Martin,"  I  said,  "do  you  not  know  me?" 

"I  am  on  the  service  of  the  convent,"  he  said.  "It 
is  against  the  rules  to  converse  or  to  linger." 

It  was  hard  to  let  him  go  without  another  word. 

"God  and  the  saints  help  thee,  Brother  Martin!"  I 
said. 

He  half  turned,  crossed  himself,  bowed  low  once 
more,  as  a  maid-servant  threw  him  some  broken  meat, 
said  meekly,  "God  be  praised  for  every  gift  he  be- 
stoweth,"  and  went  on  his  toilsome  quest  for  alms  with 
stooping  form  and  downcast  eyes.  But  how  changed 
his  face  was!  The  flush  of  youth  and  health  quite 
faded  from  the  thin,  hollow  cheeks;  the  fire  of  wit  and 
fancy  all  dimmed  in  the  red,  sunken  eyes!  Fire  there 
is  indeed  in  them  still,  but  it  seemed  to  me  of  the 
kind  that  consumes  —  not  that  warms  and  cheers. 

They  are  surely  harsh  to  him  at  the  convent.  To 
send  him   who   was    the   pride   and   ornament   of   the 


friedrich's  story.  99 

university  not  six  months  ago,  begging  from  door  to 
door,  cat  the  houses  of  friends  and  pupils,  with  whom 
he  may  not  even  exchange  a  greeting!  Is  there  no 
pleasure  to  the  obscure  and  ignorant  monks  in  thus 
humbling  one  who  was  so  lately  so  far  above  them? 
The  hands  which  wield  such  rods  need  to  be  guided 
by  hearts  that  are  very  noble  or  very  tender.  Never- 
theless, I  have  no  doubt  that  Brother  Martin  inflicts 
severer  discipline  on  himself  than  any  that  can  be 
laid  on  him  from  without.  It  is  no  external  conflict 
that  has  thus  worn  and  bowed  him  down  in  less  than 
half  a  year. 

I  fear  he  will  impose  some  severe  mortification  on 
himself  for  having  spoken  those  few  words  to  which  I 
tempted  him. 

But  if  it  is  his  vocation,  and  if  it  is  for  heaven, 
and  if  he  is  thereby  earning  merits  to  bestow  on  others, 
any  conflict  could  no  doubt  be  endured! 

July,  1506. 

Brother  Martin's  novitiate  has  expired,  and  he  has 
taken  the  name  of  Augustine,  but  we  shall  scarcely 
learn  to  call  him  by  it.  Several  of  us  were  present  a 
few  days  since  at  his  taking  the  final  vows  in  the 
Augustinian  Church.  Once  more  we  heard  the  clear, 
pleasant  voice  which  most  of  us  had  heard,  in  song 
and  animated  conversation,  on  that  farewell  evening. 
It  sounded  weak  and  thin,  no  doubt  with  fasting.  The 
garb  of  the  novice  was  laid  aside,  the  monk's  frock 
was  put  on,  and  kneeling  below  the  altar  steps,  with 
the  prior's  hands  on  his  bowed  head,  he  took  the  vow 
in  Latin:  — 

"I,  Brother  Martin,  do  make  profession  and  promise 

7* 


100     CHRONICLES  OF  THE  SCHONBERG-COTTA  FAMILY. 

obedience  imto  Almighty  God,  unto  Mary,  ever  virgin, 
and  unto  thee,  my  brother,  prior  of  this  cloister,  in  the 
name  and  in  the  stead  of  the  general  prior  of  the 
order  of  the  Eremites  of  St.  Augustine,  the  bishop  and 
his  regular  successors,  to  live  in  poverty  and  chastity 
after  the  rule  of  the  said  St.  Augustine  until  death." 

Then  the  burning  taper,  symbol  of  the  lighted  and 
evervigilant  heart,  was  placed  in  his  hand.  The  prior 
murmured  a  prayer  over  him,  and  instantly  from  the 
whole  of  the  monks  burst  the  hymn,  "Veni  Sancte 
Spiritus." 

He  knelt  while  they  were  singing;  and  then  the 
monks  led  him  up  the  steps  into  the  choir,  and  wel- 
comed him  with  the  kiss  of  brotherhood. 

Within  the  screen,  within  the  choir,  among  the 
holy  brotherhood  inside,  who  minister  before  the  altar! 
And  we,  his  old  friends,  left  outside  in  the  nave, 
separated  from  him  for  ever  by  the  screen  of  that  irre- 
vocable vow! 

For  ever!  Is  it  for  ever?  "Will  there  indeed  be 
such  a  veil  an  impenetrable  barrier,  between  us  and 
him  at  the  judgment-day?  And  we  outside?  A  barrier 
impassable  for  ever  then,  but  not  now,  not  yet! 

January,  1507. 

I  have  just  returned  from  another  Christmas  at 
home.  Things  look  a  little  brighter  there.  This  last 
year,  since  I  took  my  master's  degree,  I  have  been 
able  to  help  them  a  little  more  effectually  with  the 
money  I  receive  from  my  pupils.  It  was  a  delight  to 
take  our  dear,  self-denying,  loving  Els6  a  new  dress 
for  holidays,  although  she  protested  her  old  crimson 
petticoat  and  black  jacket  were  as  good  as  ever.     The 


friedrich's  story.  101 

child  Eva  Las  still  that  deep,  calm,  earnest  look  in  her 
eyes,  as  if  she  saw  into  the  world  of  things  unseen  and 
eternal,  and  saw  there  what  filled  her  heart  with  joy. 
I  suppose  it  is  that  angelic  depth  of  her  eyes,  in  con- 
trast with  the  guileless,  rosy  smile  of  the  childlike  lips, 
which  gives  the  strange  charm  to  her  face,  and  makes 
one  think  of  the  pictures  of  the  child-angels. 

She  can  read  the  Church  Latin  now  easily,  and 
delights  especially  in  the  old  hymns.  When  she  repeats 
them  in  that  soft,  reverent,  childish  voice,  they  seem 
to  me  deeper  and  more  sacred  than  when  sung  by  the 
fullest  choir.  Her  great  favourite  is  St.  Bernard's  "Jesu 
Dulcis  Memoria,"  and  his  "Salve  Caput  Cruentatum ; " 
hut  some  verses  of  the  "Dies  Irae"  also  are  very  often 
on  her  lips.  I  used  to  hear  her  warbling  softly  about 
the  house,  or  at  her  work,  with  a  voice  like  a  happy 
dove  hidden  in  the  depths  of  some  quiet  wood,  — 

"  Querens  me  sedisti  lassus," 

or 

Jesu  mi  dulcissime,  Domine  coelorum, 
Conditor  omnipotens,  Rex  universorum; 
Quis  jam  actus  sufficit  mirari  gestorum, 
Quae  te  ferre  compulit  sal  us  miserorum. 
Te  de  coelo  caritas  traxit  animarum, 
Pro  quibus  palatium  deserens  prasclarum ; 
Miseram  ingrediens  vallem  lacrymarum, 
Opus  durum  suscipis,  et  iter  amarum.  * 

The  sonorous  words  of  the  ancient  imperial  language 
sound  so  sweet  and  strange,   and  yet  so  familiar  from 

*  "Jesu,  Sovereign  Lord  of  heaven,  sweetest  Friend  to  me, 
King  of  all  the  universe,  all  was  made  by  thee ; 
Who  can  know  or  comprehend  the  wonders  thou  hast  wrought, 
Since  the  saving  of  the  lost  thee  so  low  hath  brought? 
Thee  the  love  of  souls  drew  down  from  beyond  the  sky,  — 
Drew  thee  from  thy  glorious  home,  thy  palace  bright  and  high ! 
To  this  narrow  vale  of  tears  thou  thy  footsieps  bendest: 
Hard  the  work  thou  tak'st  ou  thee,  rough  the  way  thou  wendest." 


102     CHRONICLES   OF  THE  SCHONBERG-COTTA  FAMILY. 

the  fresh  childish  voice.  Latin  seems  from  her  lips 
no  more  a  dead  language.  It  is  as  if  she  had  learned 
it  naturally  in  infancy  from  listening  to  the  songs  of 
the  angels  who  watched  her  in  her  sleep,  or  from  the 
lips  of  a  sainted  mother  bending  over  her  pillow  from 
heaven. 

One  thing,  however,  seems  to  disappoint  little  Eva. 
She  has  a  sentence  taken  from  a  book  her  father  left 
her  before  he  died,  but  which  she  was  never  allowed 
to  see  afterwards.  She  is  always  hoping  to  find  the 
book  in  which  this  sentence  was,  and  has  not  yet  suc- 
ceeded. 

I  have  little  doubt  myself  that  the  book  was  some 
heretical  volume  belonging  to  her  father,  who  was 
executed  for  being  a  Hussite.  It  is  to  be  hoped,  there- 
fore, she  will  never  find  it.  She  did  not  tell  me  this 
herself,  probably  because  Else,  to  whom  she  mentioned 
it,  discouraged  her  in  such  a  search.  We  all  feel  it  is 
a  great  blessing  to  have  rescued  that  innocent  heart 
from  the  snares  of  those  pernicious  heretics,  against 
whom  our  Saxon  nation  made  such  a  noble  struggle. 
There  are  not  very  many  of  the  Hussites  left  now  in 
Bohemia.  As  a  national  party  they  are  indeed  de- 
stroyed, since  the  Calixtines  separated  from  them. 
There  are,  however,  still  a  few  dragging  out  a  miser- 
able existence  among  the  forests  and  mountains;  and  it 
is  reported  that  these  opinions  have  not  yet  even  been 
quite  crushed  in  the  cities,  in  spite  of  the  vigorous 
measures  used  against  them,  but  that  not  a  few  secretly 
cling  to  their  tenets,  although  outwardly  conforming 
to  the  Church.  So  inveterate  is  the  poison  of  heresy, 
and  so  great  the  danger  from  which  little  Eva  has  been 
rescued. 


friedrich's  story.  103 


Erfurt,  May  2,  /507. 

To-day  once  more  the  seclusion  and  silence  which 
have  enveloped  Martin  Luther  since  he  entered  the 
cloister  have  been  broken.  This  day  he  has  been  con- 
secrated priest,  and  has  celebrated  his  first  mass.  There 
was  a  great  feast  at  the  Augustinian  convent-,  offerings 
poured  in  abundance  into  the  convent  treasury,  and 
Martin's  father,  John  Luther,  came  from  Mansfeld  to 
be  present  at  the  ceremony.  He  is  reconciled  at  last 
to  his  son  (whom  for  a  long  time  he  refused  to  see); 
although  not,  I  believe,  to  his  monastic  profession.  It 
is  certainly  no  willing  sacrifice  on  the  father's  part. 
And  no  wonder.  After  toiling  for  years  to  place  his 
favourite  son  in  a  position  where  his  great  abilities 
might  have  scope,  it  must  have  been  hard  to  see  every- 
thing thrown  away  just  as  success  was  attained,  for 
what  seemed  to  him  a  wilful,  superstitious  fancy.  And 
without  a  word  of  dutiful  consultation  to  prepare  him 
for  the  blow! 

Having,  however,  at  last  made  up  his  mind  to  for- 
give his  son,  he  forgave  him  like  a  father,  and  came 
in  pomp  with  precious  gifts  to  do  him  honour.  He 
rode  to  the  convent  gate  with  an  escort  of  twenty 
horsemen,  and  gave  his  son  a  present  of  twenty  florins. 

Brother  Martin  was  so  cheered  by  the  reconciliation, 
that  at  the  ordination  feast  he  ventured  to  try  to  obtain 
from  his  father  not  only  pardon,  bat  sanction  and 
approval.  It  was  of  the  deepest  interest  to  me  to  hear 
his  familiar  eloquent  voice  again,  pleading  for  his 
father's  approval.  But  he  failed.  In  vain  he  stated 
in  his  own  fervent  words  the  motives  that  had  led  to 
his   vow,   in   vain   did  tbe  monks  around  support  and 


104     CHRONICLES   OF  THE  SCHONBERG-COTTA  FAMILY. 

applaud  all  he  said.  The  old  man  was  not  to  be 
moved. 

"Dear  father,"  said  Martin,  "what  was  the  reason 
of  thy  objecting  to  my  choice  to  become  a  monk? 
Why  wert  thou  then  so  displeased,  and  perhaps  art  not 
reconciled  yet?  It  is  such  a  peaceful  and  godly  life 
to  live." 

I  cannot  say  that  Brother  Martin's  worn  and  fur- 
rowed face  spoke  much  for  the  peacefulness  of  his  life; 
but  Master  John  Luther  boldly  replied  in  a  voice  that 
all  at  the  table  might  hear,  — 

"Didst  thou  never  hear  that  a  son  must  be  obedient 
to  his  parents?  And,  you  learned  men,  did  you  never 
read  the  Scriptures,  'Thou  shalt  honour  thy  father  and 
thy  mother?'  God  grant  that  those  signs  you  speak 
of  may  not  prove  to  be  lying  wonders  of  Satan." 

Brother  Martin  attempted  no  defence.  A  look  of 
sharp  pain  came  over  his  face,  as  if  an  arrow  had 
pierced  his  heart;  but  he  remained  quite  silent. 

Yet  he  is  a  priest;  he  is  endued  with  a  power 
never  committed  even  to  the  holy  angels  —  to  tran- 
substantiate bread  into  God  —  to  sacrifice  for  the  living 
and  the  dead. 

He  is  admitted  into  the  inner  circle  of  the  court  of 
heaven. 

He  is  on  board  that  sacred  ark  which  once  he  saw 
portrayed  at  Magdeburg,  where  priests  and  monks  sail 
safely  amidst  a  drowning  world.  And  what  is  more, 
he  himself  may,  from  his  safe  and  sacred  vessel,  stoop 
down  and  rescue  perishing  men;  perhaps  confer  un- 
speakable blessings  on  the  soul  of  that  very  father 
whose  words  so  wounded  him. 

For  such  ends   well  may  he  bear  that  the  arrow 


friedrich's  story.  105 

should  pierce  his  heart.  Did  not  a  sword  pierce  thine, 
O  mournful  mother  of  consolations? 

And  he  is  certain  of  his  vocation.  He  does  not 
think  as  we  in  the  world  so  often  must,  "Is  God 
leading  me,  or  the  devil?  Am  I  resisting  His  higher 
calling  in  only  obeying  the  humbler  call  of  everyday 
duty?  Am  I  bringing  down  blessings  on  those  I  love, 
or  curses?" 

Brother  Martin,  without  question,  has  none  of  these 
distracting  doubts.  He  may  well  bear  any  other  an- 
guish which  may  meet  him  in  the  ways  of  God,  and 
because  he  has  chosen  them.  At  least  he  has  not  to 
listen  to  such  tales  as  I  have  heard  lately  from  a 
young  knight,  Ulrich  von  Hutten,  who  is  studying 
here  at  present,  and  has  things  to  relate  of  the  monks, 
priests,  and  bishops  in  Rome  itself  which  tempt  one  to 
think  all  invisible  things  a  delusion,  and  all  religion 
a  pretence. 


106     CHRONICLES   OF  THE  SCHONBERG-COTTA  FAMILY. 


V. 

ELSE'S   CHRONICLE. 

Eisenach,  January  1SI0. 

"We  Lave  passed  through  a  terrible  time-,  if,  indeed, 
we  are  through  it! 

The  plague  has  been  at  Eisenach;  and,  alas!  is 
here  still. 

Fritz  came  home  to  us  as  usual  at  Christmas.  Just 
before  he  left  Erfurt  the  plague  had  broken  out  in  the 
University.  But  he  did  not  know  it.  When  first  he 
came  to  us  he  seemed  quite  well,  and  was  full  of 
spirits;  but  on  the  second  day  he  complained  of  cold 
and  shivering,  with  pain  in  the  head,  which  increased 
towards  the  evening.  His  eyes  then  began  to  have  a 
fixed,  dim  look,  and  he  seemed  unable  to  speak  or 
think  long  connectedly. 

I  noticed  that  the  mother  watched  him  anxiously 
that  evening;  and  at  its  close,  feeling  his  hands  feverish, 
she  said  very  quietly  that  she  should  sit  up  in  his 
room  that  night.  At  first  he  made  some  resistance, 
but  he  seemed  too  faint  to  insist  on  anything;  and,  as 
he  rose  to  go  to  bed,  he  tottered  a  little,  and  said  he 
felt  giddy,  so  that  my  mother  drew  his  arm  within  hers 
and  supported  him  to  his  room. 

Still  I  did  not  feel  anxious;  but  when  Eva  and  I 
reached  our  room,  she  said,  in  that  quiet,  convincing 
manner  which  she  had  even  as  a  child,  fixing  her  large 
eyes  on  mine,  — 

"Cousin  Else,  Fritz  is  very  ill." 


else's  story.  107 

"I  think  not,  Eva,"  I  said;  "and  no  one  would 
feel  anxious  about  him  as  soon  as  I  should.  He  caught 
a  chill  on  his  way  from  Erfurt.  You  know  it  was  late 
when  he  arrived,  and  snowing  fast,  and  he  was  so 
pleased  to  see  us,  and  so  eager  in  conversation  that 
he  would  not  change  his  things.  It  is  only  a  slight 
feverish  cold.  Besides,  our  mother's  manner  was  so 
calm  when  she  wished  us  good  night.  I  do  not  think 
she  is  anxious.  She  is  only  sitting  up  with  him  for 
an  hour  or  two  to  see  that  he  sleeps." 

"Cousin  Else,"  replied  Eva,  "did  you  not  see  the 
mother's  lip  quiver  when  she  turned  to  wish  us  good 
night?" 

"No,  Eva,"  said  I;  "I  was  looking  at  Fritz." 

And  so  we  went  to  bed.  But  I  thought  it  strange 
that  Eva,  a  girl  of  sixteen,  should  be  more  anxious 
than  I  was,  and  I  his  sister.  Hope  is  generally  so 
strong,  and  fear  so  weak,  before  one  has  seen  many 
fears  realized,  and  many  hopes  disappointed.  Eva, 
however,  had  always  a  way  of  seeing  into  the  truth  of 
things.  I  was  very  tired  with  the  day's  work  (for  I 
always  rise  earlier  than  usual  when  Fritz  is  here,  to 
get  everything  done  before  he  is  about),  and  I  must 
very  soon  have  fallen  asleep.  It  was  not  midnight 
when  I  was  roused  by  the  mother's  touch  upon  my 
arm. 

The  light  of  the  lamp  she  held  showed  me  a  pale- 
ness in  her  face  and  an  alarm  in  her  eyes  which  awoke 
me  thoroughly  in  an  instant. 

"Else,"  she  said,  "go  into  the  boys'  room  and  send 
Christopher  for  a  physician.  I  cannot  leave  Fritz. 
But  do  not  alarm  your  father!"  she  added,  as  she 
crept  again  out  of  the  room  after  lighting  our  lamp. 


108     CHRONICLES  OF  THE   SCHONBERG-COTTA  FAMILY. 

I  called  Christopher,  and  in  five  minutes  he  was 
dressed  and  out  of  the  house.  When  I  returned  to 
our  room  Eva  was  sitting  dressed  on  the  bed.  She 
had  not  been  asleep,  I  saw.  I  think  she  had  been 
praying,  for  she  held  the  crucifix  in  her  clasped  hands, 
and  there  were  traces  of  tears  on  her  cheek,  although 
when  she  raised  her  eyes  to  me,  they  were  clear  and 
tearless. 

"What  is  it,  Cousin  Else?"  she  said.  "When  I 
went  for  a  moment  to  the  door  of  his  room  he  was 
talking.  It  was  his  voice,  but  with  such  a  strange, 
wild  tone  in  it.  I  think  he  heard  my  step,  although 
I  thought  no  one  would,  I  stepped  so  softly,  for  he 
called  'Eva,  Eva!'  but  the  mother  came  to  the  door 
and  silently  motioned  me  away.  But  you  may  go, 
Else,"  she  added,  with  a  passionate  rapidity  very 
unusual  with  her.     "Go  and  see  him." 

I  went  instantly.  He  was  talking  very  rapidly 
and  vehemently,  and  in  an  incoherent  way  it  was  diffi- 
cult to  understand.  My  mother  sat  quite  still,  holding 
his  hand.  His  eyes  were  not  bright  as  in  fever,  but 
dim  and  fixed.  Yet  he  was  in  a  raging  fever.  His 
hand,  when  I  touched  it,  burned  like  fire,  and  his  face 
was  flushed  crimson.  I  stood  there  quite  silently  beside 
my  mother  until  the  physician  came.  At  first  Fritz's 
eyes  followed  me;  then  they  seemed  watching  the  door 
for  some  one  else;  but  in  a  few  minutes  the  dull 
vacancy  came  over  them  again,  and  he  seemed  con- 
scious of  nothing. 

At  last  the  physician  came.  He  paused  a  moment 
at  the  door,  and  held  a  bag  of  myrrh  before  him;  then 
advancing  to  the  bed,  he  drew  aside  the  clothes  and 
looked  at  Fritz's  arm. 


else's  story.  109 

"Too  plain!"  he  exclaimed,  starting  back  as  he 
perceived  a  black  swelling  there.     "It  is  the  plague!" 

My  mother  followed  him  to  the  door. 

"Excuse  me,  madam,"  he  said;  "life  is  precious, 
and  I  might  carry  the  infection  into  the  city." 

"Can  nothing  be  done?"  she  said, 

"Not  much!"  he  said  bluntly,  and  then,  after  a 
moment's  hesitation,  touched  by  the  distress  in  her 
face,  he  returned  to  the  bedside.  "I  have  touched 
him,"  he  murmured,  as  if  apologizing  to  himself  for 
incurring  the  risk;  "the  mischief  is  done,  doubtless, 
already."  And  taking  out  his  lancet  he  bled  my 
brother's  arm. 

Then,  after  binding  up  the  arm,  he  turned  to  me 
and  said,  — 

"Get  cypress  and  juniper  wood,  and  burn  them  in 
a  brazier  in  this  room,  with  rosin  and  myrrh.  Keep 
your  brother  as  warm  as  possible  —  do  not  let  in  a 
breath  of  air!  And,"  he  added,  as  I  followed  him  to 
the  door,  "on  no  account  suffer  him  to  sleep  for  a  mo- 
ment,* and  let  no  one  come  near  him  but  you  and 
your  mother." 

When  I  returned  to  the  bedside,  after  obeying 
these  directions,  Fritz's  mind  was  wandering;  and  al- 
though we  could  understand  little  that  he  said,  he  wag 
evidently  in  great  distress.  He  seemed  to  have  com- 
prehended the  physician's  words,  for  he  frequently  re- 
peated, "The  plague!  the  plague!  I  have  brought  a 
curse  upon  my  house!"  and  then  he  would  wander 
strangely  calling  on  Martin  Luther  and  Eva  to  in- 
tercede and  obtain  pardon  for  him,   as  if  he  were  in- 

*  An  approved  method  of  treatment  of  the  plague  in  those  tiroes. 


110     CHRONICLES   OF  THE  SCHONBERG-COTTA  FAMILY. 

yoking  saints  in  heaven-,  and  occasionally  he  would 
repeat  fragments  of  Latin  hymns. 

It  was  dreadful  to  have  to  keep  him  awake;  to 
have  to  rouse  him,  whenever  he  showed  the  least 
symptom  of  slumber,  to  thoughts  which  so  perplexed 
and  troubled  his  poor  brain.  But  on  the  second  night 
the  mother  fainted  away,  and  I  had  to  carry  her  to 
her  room.  Her  dear  thin  frame  was  no  heavy  weight 
to  bear.  I  laid  her  on  the  bed  in  our  room,  which 
was  the  nearest.  Eva  appeared  at  the  door  as  I  stood 
beside  our  mother.  Her  face  was  as  pale  as  death. 
Before  I  could  prevent  it,  she  came  up  to  me,  and 
taking  my  hands  said,  — 

"Cousin  Else,  only  promise  me  one  thing;  —  if  he 
is  to  die,  let  me  see  him  once  more." 

"I  dare  not  promise  anything,  Eva,"  I  said;  "con- 
sider the  infection!" 

"What  will  the  infection  matter  to  me  if  he  dies?" 
she  said;  "I  am  not  afraid  to  die." 

"Think  of  the  father  and  the  children,  Eva,"  I 
said;  "if  our  mother  and  I  should  be  seized  next,  what 
would  they  do?" 

"Chriemhild  will  soon  be  old  enough  to  take  care 
of  them,"  she  said  very  calmly;  "promise  me,  promise 
me,  Else,  or  I  will  see  him  at  once." 

And  I  promised  her,  and  she  threw  her  arms 
around  me,  and  kissed  me.  Then  I  went  back  to 
Fritz,  leaving  Eva  chafing  my  mother's  hands.  It  was 
of  no  avail,  I  thought,  to  try  to  keep  her  from  con- 
tagion, now  that  she  had  held  my  hands  in  hers. 

When  I  came  again  to  Fritz's  bedside  he  was 
asleep!  Bitterly  I  reproached  myself;  but  what  could 
I  have  done?    He  was  asleep  —  sleeping  quietly,  with 


ELSE'S  STORY.  Ill 

soft  even  breathing.  I  had  not  courage  to  awake  him-, 
but  I  knelt  down  and  implored  the  blessed  Virgin  and 
all  the  saints  to  have  mercy  on  me  and  spare  him. 
And  they  must  have  heard  me;  for,  in  spite  of  my 
failure  in  keeping  the  physician's  orders,  Fritz  began 
to  recover  from  that  very  sleep. 

Our  grandmother  says  it  was  a  miracle;  "unless," 
she  added,  "the  doctor  was  wrong!" 

He  awoke  from  that  sleep  refreshed  and  calm,  but 
weak  as  an  infant. 

It  was  delightful  to  meet  his  eyes  when  first  he 
awoke,  with  the  look  of  quiet  recognition  in  them,  in- 
stead of  that  wild,  fixed  stare,  or  that  restless  wander- 
ing; to  look  once  more  into  his  heart  through  his  eyes. 
He  looked  at  me  a  long  time  with  a  quiet  content, 
without  speaking,  and  then  he  said,  holding  out  his 
hand  to  me,  — 

"Else,  you  have  been  watching  long  here.  You 
look  tired;  go  and  rest." 

"It  rests  me  best  to  look  at  you,"  I  said,  "and  see 
you  better." 

He  seemed  too  weak  to  persist,  and  after  taking 
some  food  and  cooling  drinks,  he  fell  asleep  again,  and 
so  did  I ;  for  the  next  thing  I  was  conscious  of  was  our 
mother  gently  placing  a  pillow  underneath  my  head, 
which  had  sunk  on  the  bed  where  I  had  been  kneeling, 
watching  Fritz.  I  was  ashamed  of  being  such  a  bad 
nurse;  but  our  mother  insisted  on  my  going  to  our 
room  to  seek  rest  and  refreshment.  And  for  the  next 
few  days  we  took  it  in  turns  to  sit  beside  him,  until 
he  began  to  regain  strength.  Then  we  thought  he 
might  like  to  see  Eva;  but  when  she  came  to  the  door, 
he  eagerly  motioned  her  away,  and  said,  — 


112     CHRONICLES   OF  THE  SCHONBERG-COTTA  FAMILY. 

"Do  not  let  her  venture  near  me.  Think  if  I  were 
to  bring  this  judgment  of  God  on  her!" 

Eva  turned  away,  and  was  out  of  sight  in  an  in- 
stant-, but  the  troubled,  perplexed  expression  came  back 
into  my  brother's  eyes,  and  the  feverish  flush  into  his 
face,  and  it  was  long  before  he  seemed  calm  again. 

I  followed  Eva.  She  was  sitting  with  clasped  hands 
in  our  room. 

"Oh,  Else,"  she  said,  "how  altered  he  is!  Are  you 
sure  he  will  live,  even  now?" 

I  tried  to  comfort  her  with  the  hope  which  was 
naturally  so  much  stronger  in  me,  because  I  had  seen 
him  in  the  depths  from  which  he  was  now  slowly 
rising  again  to  life.  But  something  in  that  glimpse  of 
him  seemed  to  weigh  on  her  very  life;  and  as  Fritz 
recovered,  Eva  seemed  to  grow  paler  and  weaker, 
until  the  same  feverish  symptoms  came  over  her  which 
we  had  learned  so  to  dread,  and  then  the  terrible 
tokens,  the  plague-spots,  which  could  not  be  doubted, 
appeared  on  the  fair,  soft  arms,  and  Eva  was  lying 
with  those  dim,  fixed,  pestilence-veiled  eyes,  and  the 
wandering  brain. 

For  a  day  we  were  able  to  conceal  it  from  Fritz, 
but  no  longer. 

On  the  second  evening  after  Eva  was  stricken,  I 
found  him  standing  by  the  window  of  his  room ,  look- 
ing into  the  street.  I  shall  never  forget  the  expres- 
sion of  horror  in  his  eyes  as  he  turned  from  the  window 
to  me. 

"Else,"  he  said,  "how  long  have  those  fires  been 
burning  in  the  streets?" 

"For  a  week,"  I  said.    "They  are  fires  of  cypress- 


else's  story.  113 

wood  and  juniper,  and  myrrh  and  pine  gums.  The 
physicians  say  they  purify  the  air." 

"I  know  too  well  what  they  are,"  he  said.  "And, 
Else,"  he  said,  "why  is  Master  Burer's  house  opposite 
closed?" 

"He  has  lost  two  children,"  I  said. 

"And  why  are  those  other  windows  closed  all  down 
the  street?"  he  rejoined. 

"The  people  have  left,  brother,"  I  said;  "but  the 
doctors  hope  the  worst  is  over  now." 

"0  just  God!"  he  exclaimed,  sinking  on  a  chair 
and  covering  his  face;  "I  was  flying  from  thee,  and  I 
have  brought  the  curse  on  my  people!" 

Then,  after  a  minute's  pause,  before  I  could  think 
of  any  words  to  comfort  him,  he  looked  up,  and  sud- 
denly demanded,  — 

"Who  are  dead  in  this  house,  Else?" 

"None,  none,"  I  said. 

"Who  are  stricken?"  he  asked. 

"All  the  children  and  the  father  are  well,"  I  said, 
"and  the  mother." 

"Then  Eva  is  stricken!"  he  exclaimed  —  "the  in- 
nocent for  the  guilty!  She  will  die  and  be  a  saint  in 
heaven,  and  I,  who  have  murdered  her,  shall  live,  and 
shall  see  her  no  more,  for  ever  and  for  ever." 

I  could  not  comfort  him.  The  strength  of  his 
agony  utterly  stunned  me.  I  could  only  burst  into 
tears,  so  that  he  had  to  try  to  comfort  me.  But  he 
did  not  speak;  he  only  took  my  hands  in  his  kindly, 
as  of  old,  without  saying  another  word.  At  length  I 
said  — 

"It  is  not  you  who  brought  the  plague,  dear  Fritz-, 
it  is  God  who  sent  it!" 

Schdnhcrg-Cotta  Family.  I.  8 


114     CHRONICLES   OF  THE  SCHONBERG-COTTA  FAMILY. 

"I  know  it  is  God!"  lie  replied,  with  such  an  in- 
tense bitterness  in  his  tone  that  I  did  not  attempt  an- 
other sentence. 

That  night  Eva  wandered  much  as  I  watched  he- 
side  her;  hut  her  delirium  was  quite  different  from  that 
of  Fritz.  Her  spirit  seemed  floating  away  on  a  quiet 
stream  into  some  happy  land  we  could  not  see.  She 
spoke  of  a  palace,  of  a  home,  of  fields  of  fragrant 
lilies,  of  white-robed  saints  walking  among  them  with 
harps  and  songs,  and  of  One  who  welcomed  her.  Oc- 
casionally, too,  she  murmured  snatches  of  the  same 
Latin  hymns  that  Fritz  had  repeated  in  his  delirium, 
but  in  a  tone  so  different,  so  child-like  and  happy! 
If  ever  she  appeared  troubled,  it  was  when  she  seemed 
to  miss  some  one,  and  be  searching  here  and  there  for 
them;  but  then  she  often  ended  with,  "Yes,  I  know 
they  will  come;  I  must  wait  till  they  come."  And  so 
at  last  she  fell  asleep,  as  if  the  thought  had  quieted 
her. 

I  could  not  hinder  her  sleeping,  whatever  the  phy- 
sician said;  she  looked  so  placid,  and  had  such  a 
happy  smile  on  her  lips.  Only  once,  when  she  had 
lain  thus  an  hour  quite  still,  while  her  chest  seemed 
scarcely  to  heave  with  her  soft,  tranquil  breathing,  I 
grew  alarmed  lest  she  should  glide  thus  from  us  into 
the  arms  of  the  holy  angels;  and  I  whispered  softly, 
"Eva,  dear  Eva!" 

Her  lips  parted  slightly,  and  she  murmured  — 

"Not  yet;  wait  till  they  can  come." 

And  then  she  turned  her  head  again  on  the  pillow, 
and  slept  on. 

She  awoke  quite  collected  and  calm,  and  then  she 
said  quietly  — 


else's  story.  115 

"Where  is  the  mother?" 

"She  is  resting,  darling  Eva." 

She  gave  a  little  contented  smile,  and  then,  in  broken 
words  at  intervals,  she  said  — 

'"Now,  I  should  like  to  see  Fritz.  You  promised 
I  should  see  him  again;  and  now,  if  I  die,  I  think  he 
would  like  to  see  me  once  more." 

I  went  to  fetch  my  brother.  He  was  pacing  up 
and  down  his  room,  with  the  crucifix  clasped  to  his 
breast.  At  first,  to  my  surprise,  he  seemed  very  re- 
luctant to  come-,  but  when  I  said  how  much  she  wished 
it,  he  followed  me  quite  meekly  into  her  room.  Eva 
was  resuming  her  old  command  over  us  all.  She  held 
out  her  hand,  with  a  look  of  such  peace  and  rest  on 
her  face. 

"Cousin  Fritz,"  she  said  at  intervals,  as  she  had 
strength,  "you  have  taught  me  so  many  things;  you 
have  done  so  much  for  me!  Now  I  wish  you  to  learn 
my  sentence,  that  if  I  go,  it  may  make  you  happy,  as 
it  does  me."  Then  very  slowly  and  distinctly  she  re- 
peated the  words  —  "'"God  so  loved  the  world,  that  he 
gave  his  only  Son?  Cousin  Fritz,"  she  added,  "I  do 
not  know  the  end  of  the  sentence.  I  have  not  been 
able  to  find  it;  but  you  must  find  it.  I  am  sure  it 
comes  from  a  good  book,  it  makes  me  love  God  so 
much  to  think  of  it.  Promise  me  you  will  find  it,  if 
I  should  die." 

He  promised,  and  she  was  quite  satisfied.  Her 
strength  seemed  exhausted,  and  in  a  few  moments,  with 
my  arms  round  her  as  I  sat  beside  her,  and  with  her 
hand  in  Fritz's,  she  fell  into  a  deep,  sleep. 

I  felt  from  that  time  she  would  not  die,  and  I 
whispered  very  softly  to  Fritz  — 

8* 


11 G     CHRONICLES   OF  THE  SCHONBERG-COTTA  FAMILY. 

"She  will  not  die;  she  will  recover,  and  you  will 
not  have  killed  her;  you  will  have  saved  her!" 

But  when  I  looked  into  his  face,  expecting  to  meet 
a  thankful,  happy  response,  I  was  appalled  by  the  ex- 
pression there. 

He  stood  immovable,  not  venturing  to  withdraw 
his  hand,  but  with  a  rigid,  hopeless  look  in  his  worn, 
pale  face,  which  contrasted  terribly  with  the  smile  of 
deep  repose  on  the  sleeping  face  on  which  his  eyes 
were  fixed. 

And  so  he  remained  until  she  awoke,  when  his 
whole  countenance  changed  for  an  instant  to  return  her 
smile. 

Then  he  said  softly,  "God  bless  you,  Eva!"  and 
pressing  her  hand  to  his  lips,  he  left  the  room. 

When  I  saw  him  again  that  day,  I  said  — 

"Fritz,  you  saved  Eva's  life!  She  rallied  from  the 
time  she  saw  you." 

"Yes,"  he  replied,  very  gently,  but  with  a  strange 
impassiveness  in  his  face;  "I  think  that  may  be  true. 
I  have  saved  her." 

But  he  did  not  go  into  her  room  again;  and  the 
next  day,  to  our  surprise  and  disappointment,  he  said 
suddenly  that  he  must  leave  us. 

He  said  few  words  of  farewell  to  any  of  us,  and 
would  not  see  Eva  to  take  leave  of  her.  He  said  it 
might  disturb  her. 

But  when  he  kissed  me  before  he  went,  his  hands 
and  his  lips  were  as  cold  as  death.  Yet  as  I  watched 
him  go  down  the  street,  he  did  not  once  turn  to  wave 
a  last  good-bye,  as  he  always  used  to  do;  but  slowly 
and  steadily  he  went  on  till  he  was  out  of  sight. 

I  turned  back  into  the  house  with   a  very  heavy 


else's  story.  117 

heart;  but  when  I  went  to  tell  Eva  Fritz  was  gone, 
and  tried  to  account  for  his  not  coming  to  take  leave 
of  her,  because  I  thought  it  would  give  her  pain  (and 
it  does  seem  to  me  rather  strange  of  Fritz),  she  looked 
up  with  her  quiet,  trustful,  contented  smile,  and 
said  — 

"I  am  not  at  all  pained,  Cousin  Else.  I  know 
Fritz  had  good  reasons  for  it  —  some  good,  kind 
reasons  —  because  he  always  has;  and  we  shall  see 
him  again  as  soon  as  he  feels  it  right  to  come." 


118     CHRONICLES  OF  THE   SCHONBERG-COTTA  FAMILY. 


VI. 

FRIEDRICH's   STORY. 

St.  Sebastian,  Erfurt,  January  20,  1510. 

The  irrevocable  step  is  taken.  I  have  entered  the 
Augustinian  cloister.  I  write  in  Martin  Luther's  cell. 
Truly  I  have  forsaken  father  and  mother,  and  all  that 
was  dearest  to  me,  to  take  refuge  at  the  foot  of  the 
cross.  I  have  sacrificed  everything  on  earth  to  my 
vocation,  and  yet  the  conflict  is  not  over.  I  seem 
scarcely  more  certain  of  my  vocation  now  than  while 
I  remained  in  the  world.  Doubts  buzz  around  me  like 
wasps,  and  sting  me  on  every  side.  The  devil,  trans- 
forming himself  into  an  angel  of  light,  perplexes  me 
with  the  very  words  of  Scripture.  The  words  of 
Martin  Luther's  father  recur  to  me,  as  if  spoken  by  a 
divine  voice.  "Honour  thy  father  and  thy  mother!" 
echoes  back  to  me  from  the  chants  of  the  choir,  and 
seems  written  everywhere  on  the  white  walls  of  my 
cell. 

And,  besides  the  thunder  of  these  words  of  God, 
tender  voices  seem  to  call  me  back  by  every  plea  of 
duty,  not  to  abandon  them  to  fight  the  battle  of  life 
alone.  Else  calls  me  from  the  old  lumber-room,  "Fritz! 
brother!  who  is  to  tell  me  now  what  to  do?"  My 
mother  does  not  call  me  back;  but  I  seem  ever  to  see 
her  tearful  eyes,  full  of  reproach  and  wonder  which 
she  tries  to  repress,  lifted  up  to  heaven  for  strength; 
and  her  worn,  pale  face,  growing  more  wan  every  day. 
In  one  voice  and  one  face  only  I  seem  never  to  hear 


friedrich's  story.  119 

or  see  reproach  or  recall;  and  yet,  Heaven  forgive  me, 
those  pure  and  saintly  eyes  which  seem  only  to  say, 
"Go  on,  Cousin  Fritz,  God  will  help  thee,  and  I  will 
pray!"  —  those  sweet,  trustful,  heavenly  eyes,  draw 
me  back  to  the  world  with  more  power  than  anything 
else. 

Is  it,  then,  too  late?  Have  I  lingered  in  the  world 
so  long  that  my  heart  can  never  more  be  torn  from  it? 
Is  this  the  punishment  of  my  guilty  hesitation,  that, 
though  I  have  given  my  body  to  the  cloister,  God  will 
not  have  my  soul,  which  evermore  must  hover  like  a 
lost  spirit  about  the  scenes  it  was  too  reluctant  to 
leave?  Shall  I  evermore,  when  I  lift  my  eyes  to 
heaven,  see  all  that  is  pure  and  saintly  there  embodied 
for  me  in  a  face  which  it  is  deadly  sin  for  me  to  re- 
member? 

Yet  I  have  saved  her  life!  If  I  brought  the  curse 
on  my  people  by  my  sin,  was  not  my  obedience  ac- 
cepted? From  the  hour  when,  in  my  room  alone,  after 
hearing  that  Eva  was  stricken,  I  prostrated  myself  be- 
fore God,  and  not  daring  to  take  His  insulted  name 
on  my  lips,  approached  him  through  His  martyred 
saint,  and  said,  "Holy  Sebastian,  by  the  arrows  which 
pierced  thy  heart,  ward  off  the  arrows  of  pestilence 
from  my  home,  and  I  will  become  a  monk,  and  change 
my  own  guilty  name  for  thine,"  —  from  that  moment 
did  not  Eva  begin  to  recover,  and  from  that  time  were 
not  all  my  kindred  unscathed?  "Cadent  a  latere  tuo 
mille,  et  decern  millia  a  dextris  tuis;  ad  te  autem  non 
approprinquabit."  Were  not  the  words  literally  ful- 
filled; and  while  many  still  fell  around  us,  was  one 
afterwards  stricken  in  my  home? 

Holy  Sebastian,  infallible  protector  against  pestilence, 


120     CHRONICLES   OF   THE   SCHONBERG-COXTA  FAMILY. 

by  thy  firmness  when  accused,  confirm  my  wavering 
will;  by  thy  double  death,  save  me  from  the  second 
death;  by  the  arrows  which  could  not  slay  thee,  thou 
hast  saved  us  from  the  arrow  that  flieth  by  day;  by 
the  cruel  blows  which  sent  thy  spirit  from  the  circus 
to  paradise,  strengthen  me  against  the  blows  of  Satan; 
by  thy  body  rescued  from  ignominious  sepulture  and 
laid  in  the  catacombs  among  the  martyrs,  raise  me 
from  the  filth  of  sin;  by  thy  generous  pleading  for  thy 
fellow-sufferers  amidst  thine  own  agonies,  help  me  to 
plead  for  those  who  suffer  with  me;  and  by  all  thy 
sorrows,  and  merits,  and  joys,  plead  —  oh  plead  for 
me,  who  henceforth  bear  thy  name! 

St.  Scholastica,  February  10. 

I  have  been  a  month  in  the  monastery.  Yesterday 
my  first  probation  was  over,  and  I  was  invested  with 
the  white  garments  of  the  novitiate. 

The  whole  of  the  brotherhood  were  assembled  in 
the  church,  when,  kneeling  before  the  prior,  he  asked 
me  solemnly  whether  I  thought  my  strength  sufficient 
for  the  burden  I  purposed  to  take  on  myself. 

In  a  low,  grave  voice,  he  reminded  me  what  those 
burdens  are  —  the  rough  plain  clothing;  the  abstemious 
living;  the  broken  rest  and  long  vigils;  the  toils  in  the 
service  of  the  order;  the  reproach  and  poverty;  the 
humiliations  of  the  mendicant;  and,  above  all,  the  re- 
nunciation of  self-will  and  individual  glory,  to  be  a 
member  of  the  order,  bound  to  do  whatever  the  supe- 
riors command,  and  to  go  whithersoever  they  direct. 

"With  God  for  my  help,"  I  could  venture  to  say, 
"of  this  will  I  make  trial." 

Then  the  prior  replied,  — ■ 


ERIEDRICh'S   STORY.  121 

"We  receive  thee,  therefore,  on  probation  for  one 
year-,  and  may  God,  who  has  begun  a  good  work  in 
thee,  carry  it  on  unto  perfection." 

The  whole  brotherhood  responded  in  a  deep  amen, 
and  then  all  the  voices  joined  in  the  hymn,  — 

"Magna  Pater  Augustine,  preces  nostras  suscipe, 
Et  per  eas  conditori  nos  placare  satage, 
Atque  rege  gregein  tuum,  sunimuni  decus  prsesulum. 

Amatorem  paupertatis,  te  collaudant  pauperes; 

Assertorem  veritatis  ainant  veri  judices ; 

Fi'angis  nobis  favos  mellis  de  Scripturis  disserens. 

Quaj  obscura  jjrius  eraut  nobis  plana  faciens, 
Tu  de  verbis  Salvatoris  dulcem  panem  eonficis, 
Et  propinas  potuni  vitas  de  psalanoruin  nectare. 

Tu  de  vita  clericorum  sanctam  scribis  regulam, 
Quam  qui  amant  et  sequuntur  viam  tenent  regiam, 
Atque  tuo  sancto  ductu  redeunt  ad  patriam. 

Regi  regum  salus,  vita,  decus  et  emporium  ; 
Trinitati  laus  et  honor  sit  per  onine  sasculum. 
Qui  concives  nos  ascribat  supernorum  civium."* 


*  "  Great  Father  Augustine,  receive  our  prayers, 
And  through  them  effectually  reconcile  the  Creator; 
And  rule  thy  flock,  the  highest  glory  of  rulers. 

The  poor  praise  thee,  lover  of  poverty; 
True  judges  love  thee,  defender  of  truth; 

Breaking  the  honeycomb  of  the  honey  of  Scripture,  thou  distributest 
it  to  us. 

Making  smooth  to  us  what  before  was  obscure ; 

Thou,  from  the  words  of  the  Saviour,  furnishest  us  with  wholesome 

bread, 
And  givest  to  drink  draughts  of  life  from  the  nectar  of  the  psalms. 

Thou  writest  the  holy  rule  for  the  life  of  priests, 
Which,  whosoever  love  and  follow,  keep  the  royal  road, 
And  by  thy  holy  leading  return  to  their  fatherland. 

Salvation  to  the  King  of  kings,  life,  glory,  and  dominion  ; 
Honour  and  praise  be  to  the  Trinity  throughout  all  ages, 
To  Him  who  declareth  us  to  be  fellow-citizens  with  the  citizens  of 
heaven." 


122     CHRONICLES   OF  THE  SCHUNliERG-COTTA  FAMILY. 

As  the  sacred  words  were  chanted,  they  mingled 
strangely  in  my  mind  with  the  ceremonies  of  the  in- 
vestiture. My  hair  was  shorn  with  the  clerical  tonsure-, 
my  secular  dress  was  laid  aside;  the  garments  of  the 
novice  were  thrown  on;  and  I  was  girded  with  the 
girdle  of  rope,  whilst  the  prior  murmured  softly  to  me, 
that  with  the  new  robes  I  must  put  on  the  new  man. 

Then,  as  the  last  notes  of  the  hymn  died  away,  I 
knelt  and  bowed  low  to  receive  the  prior's  blessing,  in- 
voked in  these  words:  — 

"May  God,  who  hath  converted  this  young  man 
from  the  world,  and  given  him  a  mansion  in  heaven, 
grant  that  his  daily  walk  may  be  as  becometh  his  call- 
ing; and  that  he  may  have  cause  to  be  thankful  for 
what  has  this  day  been  done." 

Versicles  were  then  chanted  responsively  by  the 
monks,  who,  forming  in  procession,  moved  towards  the 
choir,  where  we  all  prostrated  ourselves  in  silent 
prayer. 

After  this  they  conducted  me  to  the  great  hall  of 
the  cloister,  where  all  the  brotherhood  bestowed  on  me 
the  kiss  of  peace. 

Once  more  I  knelt  before  the  prior,  who  reminded 
me  that  he  who  persevereth  to  the  end  shall  be  saved; 
and  gave  me  over  to  the  direction  of  the  preceptor, 
whom  the  new  Vicar-General  Staupitz  has  ordered  to 
be  appointed  to  each  novice. 

Thus  the  first  great  ceremony  of  my  monastic  life 
is  over,  and  it  has  left  me  with  a  feeling  of  blank  and 
disappointment.  It  has  made  no  change  that  I  can 
feel  in  my  heart.  It  has  not  removed  the  world  further 
off  from  me.  It  has  only  raised  another  impassable 
barrier  between  me  and  all  that  was  dearest  to  me;  — 


fried  rich's  STOR?.  123 

impassable  as  an  ocean  without  ships,  infrangible  as 
the  strongest  iron,  I  am  determined  my  will  shall  make 
it;  but  to  my  heart,  alas!  thin  as  gossamer,  since  every 
faintest,  wistful  tone  of  love,  which  echoes  from  the 
past,  can  penetrate  it  and  pierce  me  with  sorrow. 

My  preceptor  is  very  strict  in  enforcing  the  rules 
of  the  order.  Trespasses  against  the  rules  are  divided 
into  four  classes,  —  small,  great,  greater,  and  greatest, 
to  each  of  which  is  assigned  a  different  degree  of  pen- 
ance. Among  the  smaller  are,  failing  to  go  to  church 
as  soon  as  the  sign  is  given,  forgetting  to  touch  the 
ground  inst  ntly  with  the  hand  and  to  smite  the  breast 
if  in  reading  in  the  choir  or  in  singing  the  least  error 
is  committed;  looking  about  during  the  service;  omit- 
ting prostration  at  the  Annunciation  or  at  Christmas; 
neglecting  the  benediction  in  coming  in  or  going  out; 
failing  to  return  books  or  garments  to  their  proper 
places;  dropping  food;  spilling  drink;  forgetting  to  say 
grace  before  eating.  Among  the  great  trespasses  are: 
contending,  breaking  the  prescribed  silence  at  fasts, 
and  looking  at  women,  or  speaking  to  them,  except  in 
brief  replies. 

The  minute  rules  are  countless.  It  is  difficult  at 
first  to  learn  the  various  genuflexions,  inclinations,  and 
prostrations.  The  novices  are  never  allowed  to  con- 
verse except  in  presence  of  the  prior,  are  forbidden  to 
take  any  notice  of  visitors,  are  enjoined  to  walk  Avith 
downcast  eyes,  to  read  the  Scriptures  diligently,  to 
bow  low  in  receiving  every  gift,  and  say,  "The  Lord 
be  praised  in  his  gifts." 

How  Brother  Martin,  with  his  free,  bold,  daring 
nature,  bore  those  minute  restrictions,  I  know  not.    To 


124     CHRONICLES   OF  THE  SCHONBERGr-COTTA  FAMILY. 

me  there  is  a  kind  of  dull,  deadening  relief  in  them, 
they  distract  my  thoughts,  or  prevent  my  thinking. 

Yet  it  must  be  true,  my  obedience  will  aid  my 
kindred  more  than  all  my  toil  could  ever  have  done 
whilst  disobediently  remaining  in  the  world.  It  is 
not  a  selfish  seeking  of  my  own  salvation  and  ease 
which  has  brought  me  here,  whatever  some  may  think 
and  say,  as  they  did  of  Martin  Luther.  I  think  of 
that  ship  in  the  picture  at  Magdeburg  he  so  often  told 
me  of.  Am  I  not  in  it,  —  actually  in  it  now?  and 
shall  I  not  hereafter,  when  my  strength  is  recovered 
from  the  fatigue  of  reaching  it,  hope  to  lean  over  and 
stretch  out  my  arms  to  them,  still  struggling  in  the 
waves  of  this  bitter  world?  and  save  them! 

Save  them;  yes,  save  their  souls!  Did  not  my 
vow  save  precious  lives?  And  shall  not  my  fastings, 
vigils,  disciplines,  prayers  be  as  effectual  for  their 
souls?  And,  then,  hereafter,  in  heaven,  where  those 
dwell  who,  in  virgin  purity,  have  followed  the  Lamb, 
shall  I  not  lean  over  the  jasper-battlements  and  help 
them  from  Purgatory  up  the  steep  sides  of  Paradise, 
and  be  first  at  the  gate  to  welcome  them  in!  And 
then,  in  Paradise,  where  love  will  no  longer  be  in 
danger  of  becoming  sin,  may  we  not  be  together  for 
ever  and  for  ever?  And  then,  shall  I  regret  that  I 
abandoned  the  brief  polluted  joys  of  earth  for  the  pure 
joys  of  eternity?  Shall  I  lament  then  that  I  chose, 
according  to  my  vocation,  to  suffer  apart  from  them 
that  their  souls  might  be  saved,  rather  than  to  toil 
with  them  for  the  perishing  body? 

Then!  then!  I,  a  saint  in  the  City  of  God!  I,  a 
hesitating,  sinful  novice  in  the  Augustinian  monastery 
at  Erfurt,  who,  after  resisting  for  years,  have  at  last 


friedrich's  story.  125 

yielded  up  my  body  to  the  cloister,  but  have  no  more 
power  tb.au  ever  to  yield  up  my  heart  to  God! 

Yet  I  am  in  the  sacred  vessel;  the  rest  will  surely 
follow.  Do  all  monks  have  such  a  conflict?  No  doubt 
the  Devil  fights  hard  for  every  fresh  victim  he  loses. 
It  is,  it  must  be,  the  Devil  who  beckons  me  through 
those  dear  faces,  who  calls  me  through  those  familiar 
voices ;  for  they  would  never  call  me  back.  They  would 
hide  their  pain,  and  say,  "Go  to  God,  if  he  calls  thee-, 
leave  us  and  go  to  God.1'  Else,  my  mother,  all  would 
say  that-,  if  their  hearts  broke  in  trying  to  say  it! 

Had  Martin  Luther  such  thoughts  in  this  very  cell  ? 
If  they  are  from  the  Evil  One,  I  think  he  had,  for  his 
assaults  are  strongest  against  the  noblest;  and  yet  I 
scarcely  think  he  can  have  had  such  weak  doubts  as 
those  which  haunt  me.  He  was  not  one  of  those  who 
draw  back  to  perdition;  nor  even  of  those  who,  having 
put  their  hand  to  the  plough,  look  back,  as  I,  alas! 
am  so  continually  doing.  And  what  does  the  Scripture 
say  of  such?  —  "They  are  not  fit  for  the  kingdom  of 
God."  No  exception,  no  reserve  —  monk,  priest, 
saint;  if  a  man  look  back,  he  is  not  fit  for  the  kingdom 
of  God.  Then  what  becomes  of  my  hopes  of  Paradise, 
or  of  acquiring  merits  which  may  aid  others?  Turn 
back,  draw  back,  I  will  never,  although  all  the  devils 
were  to  drive  me,  or  all  the  world  entice  me;  but  look 
back,  who  can  help  that?  If  a  look  can  kill,  what 
can  save?  Mortification,  crucifixion,  not  for  a  day, 
but  daily;  —  I  must  die  daily;  I  must  be  dead — dead 
to  the  world.  This  cell  must  to  me  be  as  a  tomb, 
where  all  that  was  most  living  in  my  heart  must  die 
and  be  buried.  Was  it  so  to  Martin  Luther?  Is  the 
cloister  that  to  those  bauds  of  rosy,  comfortable  monks, 


126     CHRONICLES  OF  THE  SCHONBERG-COTTA  FAMILY. 

who  drink  beer  from  great  cans,  and  feast  on  the  best 
of  the  land,  and  fast  on  the  choicest  fish?  The  Tern pter! 
the  Tempter  again!  Judge  not,  and  ye  shall  not  be 
judged. 

St.  Eulalia,  Erfurt,  February  1%,  1510. 

To-day  one  of  the  older  monks  came  to  me,  seeing 
me,  I  suppose,  look  downcast  and  sad,  and  said,  "Fear 
not,  Brother  Sebastian,  the  strife  is  often  hard  at  first; 
but  remember  the  words  of  St.  Jerome:  'Though  thy 
father  should  lie  before  thy  door  weeping  and  lament- 
ing, though  thy  mother  should  show  thee  the  body 
that  bore  thee,  and  the  breasts  that  nursed  thee,  see 
that  thou  trample  them  under  foot,  and  go  on  straight- 
way to  Christ.'" 

I  bowed  my  head,  according  to  rule,  in  acknow- 
ledgment of  his  exhortation,  and  I  suppose  he  thought 
his  words  comforted  and  strengthened  me;  but  Heaven 
knows  the  conflict  they  awakened  in  my  heart  when  I 
sat  alone  to-night  in  my  cell.  "Cruel,  bitter,  wicked 
words!"  my  earthly  heart  would  say;  my  sinful  heart, 
that  vigils,  scourging,  scarcely  death  itself,  I  fear,  can 
kill.  Surely,  at  least,  the  holy  father  Jerome  spoke 
of  heathen  fathers  and  mothers.  My  mother  would  not 
show  her  anguish  to  win  me  back;  she  would  say, 
"My  son,  my  first-born,  God  bless  thee;  I  give  thee 
freely  up  to  God."  Does  she  not  say  so  in  this  letter 
which  I  have  in  her  handwriting,  —  which  I  have  and 
dare  not  look  at,  because  of  the  storm  of  memories  it 
brings  rushing  on  my  heart? 

Is  there  a  word  of  reproach  or  remonstrance  in  her 
letter?  If  there  were,  I  would  read  it;  it  would  strengthen 
me.     The  saints  had  that  to  bear.     It  is  because  those 


friedrich's  story.  127 

holy,  tender  words  echo  in  my  heart,  from  a  voice 
weak  with  feeble  health,  that  day  by  day,  and  horn- 
by  hour,  my  heart  goes  back  to  the  home  at  Eisenach, 
and  sees  them  toiling  unaided  in  the  daily  struggle  for 
bread,  to  which  I  have  abandoned  them,  unsheltered 
and  alone. 

Then  at  times  the  thought  comes,  Am  I,  after  all, 
a  dreamer,  as  I  have  sometimes  ventured  to  think 
my  father,  —  neglecting  my  plain  daily  task  for  some 
Atlantis?  and  if  my  Atlantis  is  in  Paradise  instead  of 
beyond  the  ocean,  does  that  make  so  much  difference? 

If  Brother  Martin  were  only  here,  he  might  un- 
derstand and  help  me;  but  he  has  now  been  nearly 
two  years  at  Wittenberg,  where  he  is,  they  say,  to 
lecture  on  theology  at  the  Elector's  new  university, 
and  to  be  preacher.  The  monks  seem  nearly  as  proud 
of  him  as  the  University  of  Erfurt  was. 

Yet,  perhaps,  after  all,  he  might  not  understand 
my  perplexities.  His  nature  was  so  firm  and  straight- 
forward and  strong.  He  would  probably  have  little 
sympathy  with  wavering  hearts  and  troubled  consciences 
like  mine. 

March  7.  —  SS.  Perpetua  and  Felicitas.  — 
Erfurt,  Augustinian  Cloister. 

To-day  I  have  been  out  on  my  first  quest  for 
alms,  it  seemed  very  strange  at  first  to  be  begging 
at  familiar  doors,  with  the  frock  and  the  convent  sack 
on  my  shoulders;  but  although  I  tottered  a  little  at 
times  under  the  weight  as  it  grew  heavy  (for  the 
plague  and  fasting  have  left  me  weak),  I  returned  to 
the  cloister  feeling  better  and  easier  in  mind,  and 
more  hopeful  as  to  my  vocation,  than  I  had  done  for 
some  days.    Perhaps,  however,  the  fresh  air  had  some- 


128     CHRONICLES  OP  THE  SCHONBERG-COTTA  FAMILY. 

tiling  to  do  with  it,  and,  after  all,  it  was  only  a  little 
bodily  exultation.  But  certainly  such  bodily  loads 
and  outward  mortifications  are  not  the  burdens  which 
weigh  the  spirit  down.  There  seemed  a  luxury  in  the 
half-scornful  looks  of  some  of  my  former  fellow- 
students,  and  in  the  contemptuous  tossing  to  me  of 
scraps  of  meat  by  some  grudging  hands  ;  just  as  a  tight 
pressure,  which  in  itself  would  be  pain  were  we  at  ease, 
is  relief  to  severe  pain. 

Perhaps,  also,  0  holy  Perpetua  and  Felicitas, 
whose  day  it  is,  and  especially  thou,  0  holy  Perpetua, 
who,  after  encouraging  thy  sons  to  die  for  Christ,  wast 
martyred  thyself,  hast  pleaded  for  my  forsaken  mother 
and  for  me,  and  sendest  me  this  day  some  ray  of 
hope. 

St.  Joseph.  —  March  19.  — 
Augustinian  Cloister,  Erfubt. 

St.  Joseph,  whom  I  have  chosen  to  be  one  of  the 
twenty-one  patrons  whom  I  especially  honour,  hear 
and  aid  me  to-day.  Thou  whose  glory  it  was  to  have 
no  glory,  but  meekly  to  aid  others  to  win  their  higher 
crowns,  give  me  also  some  humble  place  on  high;  and 
not  to  me  alone,  but  to  those  also  whom  I  have  left 
still  struggling  in  the  stormy  seas  of  this  perilous 
world. 

Here,  in  the  sacred  calm  of  the  cloister,  surely  at 
length  the  heart  must  grow  calm,  and  cease  to  beat 
except  with  the  life  of  the  universal  Church,  —  the 
feasts  in  the  calendar  becoming  its  events.  But  when 
will  that  be  to  me? 

March  %0. 

Has  Brother  Martin  attained  this  repose  yet?  An 
aged  monk  sat  with  me  in  my  cell  yesterday,  who  told 


fmedrich's  story.  129 

me  strange  tidings  of  him,  which  have  given  me  some 
kind  of  bitter  comfort. 

It  seems  that  the  monastic  life  did  not  at  once  bring 
repose  into  his  heart. 

This  aged  monk  was  brother  Martin's  confessor, 
and  he  has  also  been  given  to  me  for  mine.  In  his 
countenance  there  is  such  a  peace  as  I  long  for;  —  not 
a  still,  death-like  peace,  as  if  he  had  fallen  into  it  after 
the  conflict;  but  a  living,  kindly  peace,  as  if  he  had 
won  it  through  the  conflict,  and  enjoyed  it  even  while 
the  conflict  lasted. 

It  does  not  seem  to  me  that  Brother  Martin's 
scruples  and  doubts  were  exactly  like  mine.  Indeed, 
my  confessor  says  that  in  all  the  years  he  has  exercised 
his  office  he  has  never  found  two  troubled  hearts  trou- 
bled exactly  alike. 

I  do  not  know  that  Brother  Martin  doubted  his 
vocation,  or  looked  back  to  the  world;  but  he  seems 
to  have  suffered  agonies  of  inward  torture.  His  con- 
science was  so  quick  and  tender,  that  the  least  sin 
wounded  him  as  if  it  had  been  the  grossest  crime.  He 
invoked  the  saints  most  devoutly  —  choosing,  as  I 
have  done  from  his  example,  twenty-one  saints,  and 
invoking  three  every  day,  so  as  to  honour  each  every 
week.  He  read  mass  every  day,  and  had  an  especial 
devotion  for  the  blessed  Virgin.  He  wasted  his  body 
with  fastings  and  watching.  He  never  intentionally 
violated  the  minutest  rule  of  the  order;  and  yet  the 
more  he  strove,  the  more  wretched  he  seemed  to  be. 
Like  a  musician  whose  ear  is  cultivated  to  the  highest 
degree,  the  slightest  discord  was  torture  to  him.  Can 
it  then  be  God's  intention  that  the  growth  of  our 
spiritual  life  is  only  growing  sensitiveness  to  pain?     Is 

Schonberg-Cotfa  Family.  I.  ^ 


130     CHRONICLES   OF  THE   SCHONBERG-COTTA  FAMILY. 

this  true  growth?  —  or  is  it  that  monstrous  develop- 
ment of  one  faculty  at  the  expense  of  others,  which 
is  deformity  or  disease? 

The  confessor  said  thoughtfully,  when  I  suggested 
this  — 

"The  world  is  out  of  tune,  my  son,  and  the  heart 
is  out  of  tune.  The  more  our  souls  vibrate  truly 
to  the  music  of  heaven,  the  more  perhaps  they  must 
feel  the  discords  of  earth.  At  least  it  was  so  with 
Brother  Martin;  until  at  last,  omitting  a  prostration  or 
a  genuflexion  would  weigh  on  his  conscience  like  a 
crime.  Once,  after  missing  him  for  some  time,  we  went 
to  the  door  of  his  cell,  and  knocked.  It  was  barred, 
and  all  our  knocking  drew  no  response.  We  broke  open 
the  door  at  last,  and  found  him  stretched  senseless  on 
the  floor.  We  only  succeeded  in  reviving  him  by 
strains  of  sacred  music,  chanted  by  the  choristers  whom 
we  brought  to  his  cell.  He  always  dearly  loved  music, 
and  believed  it  to  have  a  strange  potency  against  the 
wiles  of  the  devil." 

"He  must  have  suffered  grievously,"  I  said.  "I 
suppose  it  is  by  such  sufferings  merit  is  acquired  to  aid 
others!" 

"He  did  suffer  agonies  of  mind,"  replied  the  old 
monk.  "Often  he  would  walk  up  and  down  the  cold 
corridors  for  nights  together." 

"Did  nothing  comfort  him?"  I  asked. 

"Yes,  my  son;  some  words  I  once  said  to  him 
comforted  him  greatly.  Once,  when  I  found  him  in 
an  agony  of  despondency  in  his  cell,  I  said,  'Brother 
Martin,  dost  thou  believe  in  "the  forgiveness  of  sins," 
as  saith  the  Creed?'     His  face  lighted  up  at  once." 

"The    forgiveness    of    sins!"    I   repeated    slowly. 


friedrich's  story.  131 

"Father,  I  also  believe  in  that.  But  forgiveness 
only  follows  on  contrition,  confession,  and  penance. 
How  can  I  ever  be  sure  that  I  have  been  sufficiently 
contrite,  that  I  have  made  an  honest  and  complete 
confession,  or  that  I  have  performed  my  penance 
aright?1' 

"Ah,  my  son,"  said  the  old  man,  "these  were 
exactly  Brother  Martin's  perplexities,  and  I  could  only 
point  him  to  the  crucified  Lord ,  and  remind  him  again 
of  the  forgiveness  of  sins.  All  we  do  is  incomplete, 
and  when  the  blessed  Lord  says  he  forgiveth  sins,  I 
suppose  he  means  the  sins  of  sinners,  who  sin  in  their 
confession  as  in  everything  else.  My  son,  He  is  more 
compassionate  than  you  think,  perhaps  than  any  of  us 
think.  At  least  this  is  my  comfort;  and  if,  when  I 
stand  before  Him  at  last,  I  find  I  have  made  a  mis- 
take, and  thought  Him  more  compassionate  than  He  is, 
I  trust  He  will  pardon  me.  It  can  scarcely,  I  think, 
grieve  Him  so  much  as  declaring  Him  to  be  a  hard 
master  would." 

I  did  not  say  anything  more  to  the  old  man.  His 
words  so  evidently  were  strength  and  joy  to  him,  that 
I  could  not  venture  to  question  them  further.  To  me, 
also,  they  have  given  a  gleam  of  hope.  And  yet,  if 
the  way  is  not  rough  and  difficult,  and  if  it  is  not  a 
hard  thing  to  please  Almighty  God,  why  all  those 
severe  rules  and  renunciations  —  those  heavy  penances 
for  trifling  offences? 

Merciful  we  know  He  is.  But  the  emperor  may 
be  merciful;  and  yet,  if  a  peasant  were  to  attempt  to 
enter  the  imperial  presence  without  the  prescribed 
forms,  would  he  not  be   driven  from  the   palace  with 

9* 


132     CHRONICLES   OF   THE   SCHOJNBERG-COTTA  FAMILY. 

curses,  at  the  point  of  the  sword?  And  what  are 
those  rules  at  the  court  of  heaven? 

If  perfect  purity  of  heart  and  life,  who  can  lay 
claim  to  that? 

If  a  minute  attention  to  the  rules  of  an  order  such 
as  this  of  St.  Augustine,  who  can  be  sure  of  having 
never  failed  in  this  ?  The  inattention  which  caused  the 
neglect  would  probably  let  it  glide  from  the  memory. 
And  then,  what  is  the  worth  of  confession? 

Christ  is  the  Saviour,  but  only  of  those  who  follow 
him.  There  is  forgiveness  of  sins,  but  only  for  those 
who  make  adequate  confession.  I,  alas!  have  not  fol- 
lowed him  fully.  What  priest  on  earth  can  assure  me 
I  have  ever  confessed  fully? 

Therefore  I  see  him  merciful,  gracious,  holy  —  a 
Saviour,  but  seated  on  a  high  throne,  where  I  can 
never  be  sure  petitions  of  mine  will  reach  him;  and, 
alas!  one  day  to  be  seated  on  a  great  white  throne, 
whence  it  is  too  sure  his  summoning  voice  will  reach 
me. 

Mary,  mother  of  God ,  Virgin  of  virgins ,  mother  of 
divine  grace  —  holy  Sebastian  and  all  martyrs  —  great 
father  Augustine  and  all  holy  doctors,  intercede  for 
me,  that  my  penances  may  be  accepted  as  a  satisfaction 
for  my  sins,  and  may  pacify  my  Judge. 

March  %S.  —  Annunciation  of  the  Holt  Virgin. 

My  preceptor  has  put  into  my  hands  the  Bible 
bound  in  red  morocco  which  Brother  Martin,  he  says, 
used  to  read  so  much.  I  am  to  study  it  in  all  the 
intervals  which  the  study  of  the  fathers,  expeditions  for 
begging,  the  services  of  the  Church,  and  the  menial 
offices  in  the  house  which  fall  to  the  share  of  novices, 


FRIEDRICh's    STORY.  133 

allow.  These  are  not  many.  I  have  never  had  a  Bible 
in  my  hands  before,  and  the  hours  pass  quickly  indeed 
in  my  cell  which  I  can  spend  in  reading  it.  The  pre- 
ceptor, when  he  comes  to  call  me  for  the  midnight 
service,  often  finds  me  still  reading. 

It  is  very  different  from  what  I  expected.  There 
is  nothing  oratorical  in  it,  there  are  no  laboured  dis- 
quisitions, and  no  minute  rules,  at  least  in  the  New 
Testament. 

I  wish  sometimes  I  had  lived  in  the  Old  Jewish 
times,  when  there  was  one  temple  wherein  to  worship, 
certain  definite  feasts  to  celebrate,  certain  definite  cere- 
monial rules  to  keep. 

If  I  could  have  stood  in  the  Temple  courts  on  that 
great  day  of  atonement,  and  seen  the  victim  slain,  and 
watched  till  the  high  priest  came  out  from  the  holy 
place  with  his  hands  lifted  up  in  benediction,  I  should 
have  known  absolutely  that  God  was  satisfied,  and  re- 
turned to  my  home  in  peace.  Yes,  to  my  home!  There 
were  no  monasteries,  apparently,  in  those  Jewish  times. 
Family  life  was  God's  appointment  then,  and  family 
affections  had  his  most  solemn  sanctions. 

In  the  New  Testament,  on  the  contrary,  I  cannot 
find  any  of  those  definite  rules.  It  is  all  addressed  to 
the  heart;  and  who  can  make  the  heart  right?  I  sup- 
pose it  is  the  conviction  of  this  which  has  made  the 
Church  since  then  restore  many  minute  rules  and  dis- 
cipline, in  imitation  of  the  Jewish  ceremonial;  for  in 
the  Gospels  and  Epistles  I  can  find  no  ritual,  ceremonial, 
or  definite  external  rules  of  any  kind. 

What  advantage,  then,  has  the  New  Testament  over 
the  old?  Christ  has  come.  "God  so  loved  the  world, 
that  he  gave  his  only  begotten  Son."  This  ought  surely 


134     CHRONICLES   OF  THE   SCHONBERG-COTTA  FAMILY. 

to  make  a  great  difference  between  us  and  the  Jews. 
But  how? 

April  9.  —  St.  Gregory  of  Nyssa. 

I  have  found,  in  my  reading  to-day,  the  end  of 
Eva's  sentence  —  "God  so  loved  the  world,  that  he 
gave  his  only  begotten  Son,  that  whosoever  lelieveth  in 
him  should  not  perish,  but  have  everlasting  life.'''' 

How  simple  the  words  are!  —  "Believeth;"  that 
would  mean,  in  any  other  book,  "trusteth,"  "has  re- 
liance" in  Christ ; —  simply  to  confide  in  him,  and  then 
receive  his  promise  not  to  perish. 

But  here  —  in  this  book,  in  theology  —  it  is  neces- 
sarily impossible  that  believing  can  mean  anything  so 
simple  as  that-,  because  at  that  rate,  any  one  who 
merely  came  to  the  Lord  Jesus  Christ  in  confiding 
trust  would  have  everlasting  life,  without  any  further 
conditions;  and  this  is  obviously  out  of  the  ques- 
tion. 

For  what  can  be  more  simple  than  to  confide  in 
one  worthy  of  confidence?  and  what  can  be  greater  than 
everlasting  life? 

And  yet  we  know,  from  all  the  teaching  of  the 
doctors  and  fathers  of  the  Church,  that  nothing  is  more 
difficult  than  obtaining  everlasting  life;  and  that,  for 
this  reason,  monastic  orders,  pilgrimages,  penances, 
have  been  multiplied  from  century  to  century;  for  this 
reason  saints  have  forsaken  every  earthly  joy,  and 
inflicted  on  themselves  every  possible  torment;  —  all  to 
obtain  everlasting  life,  which,  if  this  word  "believeth" 
meant  here  what  it  would  mean  anywhere  but  in  theology, 
would  be  offered  freely  to  every  petitioner. 

Wherefore   it    is    clear   that    "believeth,"    in    the 


friedrich's  story.  135 

Scriptures,  means  something  entirely  different  from 
what  it  does  in  any  secular  hook,  and  must  include 
contrition,  confession,  penance,  satisfaction,  mortifica- 
tion of  the  flesh,  and  all  else  necessary  to  salvation. 

Shall  I  venture  to  send  this  end  of  Eva's  sentence 
to  her? 

It  might  mislead  her.  Dare  I  for  her  sake  ?  —  dare 
I  still  more  for  my  own? 

One  hour  I  have  sat  before  this  question;  and 
whither  has  my  heart  wandered?  What  confession  can 
retrace  the  flood  of  bitter  thoughts  which  have  rushed 
over  me  in  this  one  hour? 

I  had  watched  her  grow  from  childhood  into  early 
womanhood;  and  until  these  last  months,  until  that 
week  of  anguish,  I  had  thought  of  her  as  a  creature 
between  a  child  and  an  angel.  I  had  loved  her  as  a 
sister  who  had  yet  a  mystery  and  a  charm  about  her 
different  from  a  sister.  Only  when  it  seemed  that  death 
might  separate  us  did  it  burst  upon  me  that  there  was 
something  in  my  affection  for  her  which  made  her  not 
one  among  others,  but  in  some  strange  sacred  sense  the 
only  one  on  earth  to  me. 

And  as  I  recovered  came  the  hopes  I  must  never 
more  recall,  which  made  all  life  like  the  woods  in 
spring,  and  my  heart  like  a  full  river  set  free  from  its 
ice- fetters,  and  flowing  through  the  world  in  a  tide  of 
blessing. 

I  thought  of  a  home  which  might  be,  I  thought  of 
a  sacrament  which  should  transubstantiate  all  life  into 
a  symbol  of  heaven,  a  home  which  was  to  be  peaceful 
and  sacred  as  a  church,  because  of  the  meek,  and  pure, 
and  heavenly  creature  who  should  minister  and  reign 
there. 


136     CHRONICLES  OF  THE  SCHONBERG-COTTA  FAMILY. 

And  then  came  to  me  that  terrible  vision  of  a  city 
smitten  by  the  pestilence  which  I  had  brought,  with 
the  recollection  of  the  impulse  I  had  had  in  the  forest 
at  midnight,  and  more  than  once  since  then,  to  take 
the  monastic  vows.  I  felt  I  was  like  Jonah  flying  from 
God-,  yet  still  I  hesitated  until  she  was  stricken.  And 
then  I  yielded.  I  vowed  if  she  were  saved  I  would 
become  a  monk. 

Not  till  she  was  stricken,  whose  loss  would  have 
made  the  whole  world  a  blank  to  me:  not  till  the 
sacrifice  was  worthless,  —  did  I  make  it!  And  will 
God  accept  such  a  sacrifice  as  this? 

At  least  Brother  Martin  had  not  this  to  reproach 
himself  with.  He  did  not  delay  his  conversion  until 
his  whole  being  had  become  possessed  by  an  image  no 
prayers  can  erase;  nay,  which  prayer  and  holy  medita- 
tions on  heaven  itself,  only  rivet  on  the  heart,  as  the 
purest  reflection  of  heaven  memory  can  recall. 

Brother  Martin,  at  least,  did  not  trifle  with  his 
vocation  until  too  late. 


ELSE'S   STORY.  137 


VII. 

else's  story. 

January  25. 

It  is  too  plain  now  why  Fritz  would  not  look  back 
as  lie  went  down  the  street.  He  thought  it  would  be 
looking  back  from  the  kingdom  of  God. 

The  kingdom  of  God,  then,  is  the  cloister,  and  the 
world,  we  are  that!  —  father,  mothers,  brothers,  sister, 
friends,  home,  that  is  the  world!  I  shall  never  under- 
stand it.  For  if  all  my  younger  brothers  say  is  true, 
either  all  the  priests  and  monks  are  not  in  the  kingdom 
of  God,  or  the  kingdom  of  God  is  strangely  governed 
here  on  earth. 

Fritz  was  helping  us  all  so  much.  He  would  have 
been  the  stay  of  our  parents1  old  age.  He  was  the 
example  and  admiration  of  the  boys,  and  the  pride 
and  delight  of  us  all-,  and  to  me!  My  heart  grows  so 
bitter  when  I  write  about  it,  I  seem  to  hate  and  reproach 
every  one.  Every  one  but  Fritz;  I  cannot,  of  course, 
hate  him.  But  why  was  all  that  was  gentlest  and 
noblest  in  him  made  to  work  toward  this  last  dreadful 
step? 

If  our  father  had  only  been  more  successful,  Fritz 
need  not  have  entered  on  that  monastic  foundation  at 
Erfurt,  which  made  his  conscience  so  sensitive;  if  my 
mother  had  only  not  been  so  religious,  and  taught  us 
to  reverence  Aunt  Agnes  as  so  much  better  than  herself, 
he  might  never  have  thought  of  the  monastic  life;  if  I 
had  been  more  religious  he  might  have  confided  more 


138     CHRONICLES  OP  THE  SCHONBERG-COTTA  FAMILY. 

in  me,  and  I  might  have  induced  him  to  pause,  at 
least,  a  few  years  before  taking  this  unalterable  step. 
If  Eva  had  not  been  so  wilful,  and  insisted  on  braving 
the  contagion  from  me,  she  might  never  have  been 
stricken,  and  tbat  vow  might  not  yet,  might  never 
have  been  taken.  If  God  had  not  caused  him  so  inno- 
cently to  bring  the  pestilence  among  us!  But  I  must 
not  dare  to  say  another  word  of  complaint,  or  it  will 
become  blasphemy.  Doubtless  it  is  God  who  has  willed 
to  bring  all  this  misery  on  us;  and  to  rebel  against 
God  is  a  deadly  sin.  As  Aunt  Agnes  said,  "The 
Lord  is  a  jealous  God,"  he  will  not  suffer  us  to  make 
idols.  We  must  love  him  best,  first,  alone.  We  must 
make  a  great  void  in  our  heart  by  renouncing  all 
earthly  affections,  that  he  may  fill  it.  We  must  mortify 
the  flesh,  that  we  may  live.  What,  then,  is  the  flesh? 
I  suppose  all  our  natural  affections,  which  the  monks 
call  our  fleshly  lusts.  These  Fritz  has  renounced. 
Then  if  all  our  natural  affections  are  to  die  in  us, 
what  is  to  live  in  us?  The  "spiritual  life,"  they  say 
in  some  of  the  sermons,  and  "the  love  of  God."  But 
are  not  my  natural  affections  my  heart;  and  if  I  am 
not  to  love  God  with  my  heart,  with  the  heart  with 
which  I  love  my  father  and  mother,  what  am  I  to  love 
him  with? 

It  seems  to  me ,  the  love  of  God  to  us  is  some- 
thing quite  different  from  any  human  being's  love 
to  us. 

When  human  beings  love  us  they  like  to  have  us 
with  them;  they  delight  to  make  us  happy;  they  de- 
light in  our  being  happy,  whether  they  make  us  so  or 
not,  if  it  is  a  right  happiness,  a  happiness  that  does 
us  good. 


else's  story.  139 

But  with  God's  love  it  must  be  quite  different.  He 
warns  us  not  on  any  account  to  come  too  near  Him. 
We  have  to  place  priests,  and  saints,  and  penances  be- 
tween us  and  Him,  and  then  approach  Him  with  the 
greatest  caution,  lest,  after  all,  it  should  be  in  the 
wrong  way,  and  He  should  be  angry.  And,  instead  of 
delighting  in  our  happiness,  He  is  never  so  much 
pleased  as  when  we  renounce  all  the  happiness  of  our 
life,  and  make  other  people  wretched  in  doing  so,  as 
Fritz,  our  own  Fritz,  has  just  done. 

Therefore,  also,  no  doubt,  the  love  God  requires 
we  should  feel  for  Him  is  something  entirely  different 
from  the  love  we  give  each  other.  It  must,  I  suppose, 
be  a  serious,  severe,  calm  adoration,  too  sublime  to 
give  either  joy  or  sorrow,  such  as  had  left  its  stamp 
on  Aunt  Agnes's  grave  impassive  face.  I  can  never, 
never  even  attempt  to  attain  to  it.  Certainly  at  pre- 
sent I  have  no  time  to  think  of  it. 

Thank  Heaven,  thou  livest  still,  mother  of  mercy! 
In  thy  face  there  have  been  tears,  real,  bitter,  human 
tears;  in  thine  eyes  there  have  been  smiles  of  joy,  real, 
simple,  human  joy.  Thou  wilt  understand  and  have 
pity.  Yet  oh,  couldst  not  thou,  even  thou,  sweet  mo- 
ther, have  reminded  him  of  the  mother  he  has  left  to 
battle  on  alone?  thou  who  art  a  mother,  and  didst 
bend  over  a  cradle,  and  hadst  a  little  lowly  home  at 
Nazareth  once? 

But  I  know  my  own  mother  would  not  even  her- 
self have  uttered  a  word  to  keep  Fritz  back.  When 
first  we  heard  of  it,  and  I  entreated  her  to  write  and 
remonstrate,  although  the  tears  were  streaming  from 
her  eyes,  she  said,  "Not  a  word,  Else,  not  a  syllable. 
Shall  not  I  give  my  son  up  freely  to  Him  who  gave 


140     CHRONICLES   OF  THE   SCHONBERG-COTTA  FAMILY. 

him  to  me.  God  might  have  called  him  away  from 
earth  altogether  when  he  lay  smitten  with  the  plague, 
and  shall  I  grudge  him  to  the  cloister?  I  shall  see  him 
again,"  she  added,  "once  or  twice  at  least.  "When  he 
is  consecrated  priest,  shall  I  not  have  joy  then,  and 
see  him  in  his  white  robes  at  the  altar,  and,  perhaps, 
even  receive  my  Creator  from  his  hands!" 

"Once  or  twice!  —  0  mother!"  I  sobbed,  "and  in 
church,  amongst  hundreds  of  others!  What  pleasure 
will  there  be  in  that?" 

"Else,"  she  said  softly,  but  with  a  firmness  un- 
usual with  her,  "my  child,  do  not  say  another  word. 
Once  I  myself  had  some  faint  inclination  to  the  cloister, 
which ,  if  I  had  nourished  it,  might  have  grown  into  a 
vocation.  But  I  saw  your  father,  and  I  neglected  it. 
And  see  what  troubles  my  children  have  to  bear!  Has 
there  not  also  been  a  kind  of  fatal  spell  on  all  your 
father's  inventions?  Perhaps  God  will  at  last  accept 
from  me  in  my  son  what  I  withheld  in  myself,  and 
will  be  pacified  towards  us,  and  send  us  better  days; 
and  then  your  father's  great  invention  will  be  com- 
pleted yet.  But  do  not  say  anything  of  what  I  told 
you  to  him!" 

I  have  never  seen  our  father  so  troubled  about 
anything. 

"Just  as  he  was  able  to  understand  my  projects!" 
he  said,  "and  I  would  have  bequeathed  them  all  to 
him!" 

For  some  days  he  never  touched  a  model;  but  now 
he  has  crept  back  to  his  old  folios  and  his  instruments, 
and  tells  us  there  was  something  in  Fritz's  horoscope 
which  might  have  prepared  us  for  this,  had  he  only 
understood  it  a  little  before.     However,  this  discovery, 


else's  story.  141 

although  too  late  to  warn  us  of  the  blow,  consoles 
our  father,  and  he  has  resumed  his  usual  occupa- 
tions. 

Eva  looks  very  pale  and  fragile,  partly,  no  doubt, 
from  the  effects  of  the  pestilence;  but  when  first  the 
rumour  reached  us,  I  sought  some  sympathy  from  her, 
and  said,  "0  Eva,  how  strange  it  seems,  when  Fritz 
always  thought  of  us  before  himself,  to  abandon  us  all 
thus  without  one  word  of  warning." 

"Cousin  Else,"  she  said,  "Fritz  has  done  now  as 
he  always  does.  He  has  thought  of  us  first,  I  am  as 
sure  of  it  as  if  I  could  hear  him  say  so.  He  thought 
he  would  serve  us  best  by  leaving  us  thus,  or  he  would 
never  have  left  us." 

She  understood  him  best  of  all,  as  she  so  often 
does.  When  his  letter  came  to  our  mother,  it  gave 
just  the  reasons  she  had  often  told  me  she  was  sure 
had  moved  him. 

It  is  difficult  to  tell  what  Eva  feels,  because  of 
that  strange  inward  peace  in  her  which  seems  always 
to  flow  under  all  her  other  feelings. 

I  have  not  seen  her  shed  any  tears  at  all;  and 
whilst  I  can  scarcely  bear  to  enter  our  dear  old  lum- 
ber-room, or  to  do  anything  I  did  with  him,  her  great 
delight  seems  to  be  to  read  every  book  he  liked, 
and  to  learn  and  repeat  every  hymn  she  learned  with 
him. 

Eva  and  the  mother  cling  very  closely  together. 
She  will  scarcely  let  my  mother  do  any  household 
work,  but  insists  on  sharing  every  laborious  task  which 
hitherto  we  have  kept  her  from,  because  of  her  slight 
and  delicate  frame. 

It  is  true  I  rise  early  to  save  them  all  the  work  I 


142     CHRONICLES   OF   THE  SCHONBERG-COTTA   FAMILY. 

can,  because  they  have  neither  of  them  half  the  strength 
I  have,  and  I  enjoy  stirring  about.  Thoughts  come 
so  much  more  bitterly  on  me  when  I  am  sitting  still. 

But  when  I  am  kneading  the  dough,  or  pounding 
the  clothes  with  stones  in  the  stream  on  washing-days, 
I  feel  as  I  were  pounding  at  all  my  perplexities;  and 
that  makes  my  bands  stronger  and  my  perplexities 
more  shadowy,  until  even  now  I  find  myself  often 
singing  as  I  am  wringing  the  clothes  by  the  stream. 
It  is  so  pleasant  in  the  winter  sunshine,  with  the 
brook  babbling  among  the  rushes  and  cresses,  and 
little  Thekla  prattling  by  my  side,  and  pretending  to 
help. 

But  when  I  have  finished  my  day's  work,  and 
come  into  the  house,  I  find  the  mother  and  Eva  sitting 
close  side  by  side;  and  perhaps  Eva  is  silent,  and  my 
mother  brushes  tears  away  as  they  fall  on  her  knitting; 
but  when  they  look  up,  their  faces  are  calm  and  peace- 
ful, and  then  I  know  they  have  been  talking  about 
Fritz. 

Eisenach,  February  2. 

Yesterday  afternoon  I  found  Eva  translating  a 
Latin  hymn  he  loved,  to  our  mother,  and  then  she 
sang  it  through  in  her  sweet  clear  voice.  It  was  about 
the  dear,  dear  country  in  heaven,  and  Jerusalem  the 
Golden. 

In  the  evening  I  said  to  her  — 

"OEva,  how  can  you  bear  to  sing  the  hymns  Fritz 
loved  so  dearly?  I  could  not  sing  a  line  steadily  of 
any  song  he  had  cared  to  hear  me  sing!  And  he  de- 
lighted always  so  much  to  listen  to  you.  His  voice 
would  echo  'never,  never  more'  to  every  note  I  sung, 
and  the  songs  would  all  end  in  sobs." 


ELSE'S   STORY.  143 

"But  I  do  not  feel  separated  from  Fritz,  Cousin 
Else,"  she  said,  "and  I  never  shall.  Instead  of  hear- 
ing that  melancholy  chant  you  think  of,  'never,  never 
more'  echo  from  all  the  hymns  he  loved,  I  always 
seem  to  hear  his  voice  responding,  'For  ever  and  for 
evermore.'  And  I  think  of  the  time  when  we  shall 
sing  them  together  again." 

"Do  you  mean  in  heaven,  Eva?"  I  said,  "that  is 
so  very  far  off,  if  we  ever  reach  it  — " 

"Not  so  very  far  off,  Cousin  Else,"  she  said.  "I 
often  think  it  is  very  near.  If  it  were  not  so,  how 
could  the  angels  be  so  much  with  us  and  yet  with 
God?" 

"But  life  seems  so  long,  now  Fritz  is  gone." 

"Not  so  very  long,  Cousin  Else,"  she  said.  "I 
often  think  it  may  be  very  short,  and  often  I  pray  it 
may." 

"Eva!"  I  exclaimed,  "you  surely  do  not  pray  that 
you  may  die?" 

"Why  not?"  she  said,  very  quietly.  "I  think  if 
God  took  us  to  himself,  we  might  help  those  we  love 
better  there  than  at  Eisenach,  or  perhaps  even  in  the 
convent.  And  it  is  there  we  shall  meet  again,  and 
there  are  never  any  partings.  My  father  told  me  so," 
she  added,  "before  he  died." 

Then  I  understood  how  Eva  mourns  for  Fritz,  and 
why  she  does  not  weep;  but  I  could  only  say  — 

"0  Eva,  do  not  pray  to  die.  There  are  all  the 
saints  in  heaven :  and  you  help  us  so  much  more 
here!" 

February  8. 

I  cannot  feel  at  all  reconciled  to  losing  Fritz,  nor 
do  I  think  I  ever  shall.    Like  all  the  other  troubles,  it 


144     CHRONICLES   OF   THE   SCHONBERG-COTTA  FAMILY. 

was  no  doubt  meant  to  do  me  good;  but  it  does  me 
none,  I  am  sure,  although,  of  course,  that  is  my  fault. 
What  did  me  good  was  being  happy,  as  I  was  when 
Fritz  came  back;  and  that  is  passed  for  ever. 

My  great  comfort  is  our  grandmother.  The  mother 
and  Eva  look  on  everything  from  such  sublime  heights; 
but  my  grandmother  feels  more  as  I  do.  Often,  indeed, 
she  speaks  very  severely  of  Fritz,  which  always  does 
me  good,  because,  of  course,  I  defend  him,  and  then 
she  becomes  angry,  and  says  we  are  an  incomprehensible 
family,  and  have  the  strangest  ideas  of  right  and  wrong, 
from  my  father  downward,  she  ever  heard  of;  and  then 
I  grow  angry,  and  say  my  father  is  the  best  and  wisest 
man  in  the  Electoral  States.  Then  our  grandmother 
begins  to  lament  over  her  poor,  dear  daughter,  and 
the  life  she  has  led,  and  rejoices,  in  a  plaintive  voice, 
that  she  herself  has  nearly  done  with  the  world  alto- 
gether; and  then  I  try  to  comfort  her,  and  say  that  I 
am  sure  there  is  not  much  in  the  world  to  make  any 
one  wish  to  stay  in  it;  and,  having  reached  this  point 
of  despondency,  we  both  cry  and  embrace  each  other, 
and  she  says  I  am  a  poor,  good  child,  and  Fritz  was 
always  the  delight  of  her  heart,  which  I  know  very 
well;  —  and  thus  we  comfort  each  other.  We  have, 
moreover,  solemnly  resolved,  our  grandmother  and  I, 
that,  whatever  comes,  of  it,  we  will  never  call  Fritz 
anything  but  Fritz. 

"Brother  Sebastian,  indeed!"  she  said;  "your  mother 
might  as  well  take  a  new  husband  as  your  brother  a 
new  name!  Was  not  she  married,  and  was  not  he 
christened  in  church?  Is  not  Friedrich  a  good,  honest 
name,    which  hundreds  of  your  ancestors  have  borne? 


else's  story.  145 

And  shall  we  call  him  instead  a  heathen  foreign  name, 
that  none  of  your  kindred  were  ever  known  by?" 

"Not  heathen,  grandmother,11  I  ventured  to  suggest. 
"You  remember  telling  us  of  the  martyrdom  of  St. 
Sebastian  by  the  heathen  emperor?" 

"Do  you  contradict  me,  child?"  she  exclaimed. 
"Did  I  not  know  the  whole  martyrology  before  your 
mother  was  born?  I  say  it  is  a  heathen  name.  No 
blame  to  the  saint  if  his  parents  were  poor  benighted 
Pagans,  and  knew  no  better  name  to  give  him;  but 
that  our  Fritz  should  adopt  it  instead  of  his  own  is  a 
disgrace.  My  lips  at  least  are  too  old  to  learn  such 
new-fashioned  nonsense.  I  shall  call  him  the  name  I 
called  him  at  the  font  and  in  his  cradle ,  and  no 
other." 

Yes,  Fritz!  Fritz!  he  is  to  us,  and  shall  be  al- 
ways.    Fritz  in  our  hearts  till  death! 

F(  In  nary  15. 

We  have  just  heard  that  Fritz  has  finished  his  first 
month  of  probation,  and  has  been  invested  with  the 
frock  of  the  novice.  I  hate  to  think  of  his  thick,  dark, 
waving  hair  clipped  in  the  circle  of  the  tonsure.  But 
the  worst  part  of  it  is  the  effect  of  his  becoming  a 
monk  has  had  on  the  other  boys ,  Christopher  and 
Pollux. 

They,  who  before  this  thought  Fritz  the  model  of 
everything  good  and  great,  seem  repelled  from  all  re- 
ligion now.  I  have  difficulty  even  in  getting  them  to 
church. 

Christopher  said  to  me  the  other  day  — 

"Else,  why  is  a  man  who  suddenly  deserts  his 
family  to  become  a  soldier  called  a  villain,   while  the 

Sclwnlerg-Cotta  Family.   I.  *" 


1  46     CHRONICLES   OF   THE   SCHONBERG-COTTA  FAMILY. 

man  who  deserts  those  who  depend  on  him  to  become 
a  monk  is  called  a  saint?" 

It  is  very  unfortunate  the  boys  should  come  to  me 
with  their  religious  perplexities,  because  I  am  so  per- 
plexed myself,  I  have  no  idea  how  to  answer  them.  I 
generally  advise  them  to  ask  Eva. 

This  time  I  could  only  say,  as  our  grandmother 
had  so  often  said  to  me,, — 

"You  must  wait  till  you  are  older,  and  then  you 
will  understand."  But  I  added,  "Of  course  it  is  quite 
different:  one  leaves  his  home  for  God,  and  the  other 
for  the  world." 

But  Christopher  is  the  worst,  and  he  continued, — 

"Sister  Else,  I  do  not  like  the  monks  at  all.  You 
and  Eva  and  our  mother  have  no  idea  how  wicked 
many  of  them  are,  Bernhardt  says  he  has  seen  them 
drunk  often,  and  heard  them  swear,  and  that  some  of 
them  make  a  jest  even  of  the  mass ,  and  that  the 
priests'  houses  are  not  fit  for  any  honest  maiden  to 
visit,  and,  — " 

"Reinhardt  is  a  bad  boy,"  I  said,  colouring;  "and 
I  have  often  told  you  I  do  not  want  to  hear  anything 
he  says." 

"But  I,  at  all  events,  shall  never  become  a  monk 
or  a  priest,"  retorted  Christopher-,  "I  think  the  mer- 
chants are  better.  Women  cannot  understand  about 
these  things,"  he  added,  loftily,  "and  it  is  better  they 
should  not;  but  I  know;  and  I  intend  to  be  a  merchant 
or  a  soldier." 

Christopher  and  Pollux  are  fifteen,  and  Fritz  is 
two-and-twenty;  but  lie  never  talked  in  that  lofty  way 
to  me  about  women  not  understanding! 

It  did  make  me  indignant  to  hear  Christopher,  who 


else's  story.  147 

is  always  tearing  his  clothes,  and  getting  into  scrapes, 
and  perplexing  us  to  get  him  out  of  them,  comparing 
himself  with  Fritz,  and  looking  down  on  his  sisters; 
and  I  said,  "It  is  only  boys  who  talk  scornfully  of 
women.    Men,  true  men,  honour  women." 

"The  monks  do  not!"  retorted  Christopher.  "I 
have  heard  them  say  things  myself  worse  than  I  have 
ever  said  about  any  woman.  Only  last  Sunday,  did 
not  Father  Boniface  say  half  the  mischief  in  the  world 
had  been  done  by  women,  from  Eve  to  Helen  and 
Cleopatra?" 

"Do  not  mention  our  mother  Eve  with  those  heathens, 
Christopher,"  said  our  grandmother,  coming  to  my  rescue, 
from  her  corner  by  the  stove.  "Eve  is  in  the  Holy 
Scriptures,  and  many  of  these  pagans  are  not  fit  for 
people  to  speak  of.  Half  the  saints  are  women,  you 
know  very  well.  Peasants  and  traders,"  she  added 
sublimely,  "may  talk  slightingly  of  women;  but  no 
man  can  be  a  true  knight  who  does." 

"The  monks  do!"  muttered  Christopher  doggedly. 

"I  have  nothing  to  say  about  the  monks,"  rejoined 
our  grandmother  tartly.  And  accepting  this  imprudent 
concession  of  our  grandmother's,  Christopher  retired 
from  the  contest. 

March  23. 

I  have  just  been  looking  at  two  letters  addressed 
to  Father  Johann  Braun,  one  of  our  Eisenach  priests, 
by  Martin  Luther.  They  were  addressed  to  him  as  "the 
holy  and  venerable  priest  of  Christ  and  of  Mary."  So 
much  I  could  understand,  and  also  that  he  calls  him- 
self Brother  Martin  Luther,  not  Brother  Augustine,  a 
name  he  assumed  on  first  entering  *.he  cloister.    There- 

10* 


148     CHRONICLES   OF   THE   SCHONBERG-COTTA  FAMILY. 

fore  certainly  I  may  call  our  Fritz,    Brother  Friedrich 
Cotta. 

March  29,  1510. 

A  young  man  was  at  Aunt  Ursula  Cotta's  this 
evening,  who  told  us  strange  things  about  the  doings 
at  Annaberg. 

Dr.  Tetzel  has  been  there  two  years,  selling  the 
papal  indulgences  to  the  people;  and  lately,  out  of 
regard,  he  says,  to  the  great  piety  of  the  German 
people,  he  has  reduced  their  price. 

There  was  a  great  deal  of  discussion  about  it,  which 
I  rather  regretted  the  boys  were  present  to  hear.  My 
father  said  indulgences  did  not  mean  forgiveness  of 
sins,  but  only  remission  of  certain  penances  which  the 
Church  had  imposed.  But  the  young  man  from  Anna- 
berg told  us  that  Dr.  John  Tetzel  solemnly  assured  the 
people,  that  since  it  was  impossible  for  them,  on  account 
of  their  sins,  to  make  satisfaction  to  God  by  their  works, 
our  Holy  Father  the  Pope,  who  has  the  control  of  all 
the  treasury  of  merits  accumulated  by  the  Church 
throughout  the  ages,  now  graciously  sells  those  merits 
to  any  who  will  buy,  and  thereby  bestows  on  them  for- 
giveness of  sins  (even  of  sins  which  no  other  priest  can 
absolve),  and  a  certain  entrance  into  eternal  life. 

The  young  man  said,  also,  that  the  great  red  cross 
has  been  erected  in  the  nave  of  the  principal  church, 
with  the  crown  of  thorns,  the  nails,  and  spear  sus- 
pended from  it,  and  that  at  times  it  has  been  granted 
to  the  people  even  to  see  the  blood  of  the  Crucified 
flow  from  the  cross.  Beneath  this  cross  are  the  banners 
of  the  Church,  and  the  papal  standard,  with  the  triple 
crown.  Before  it  is  the  large,  strong  iron  money  chest. 
On  one  side  stands  the  pulpit,  where  Dr.  Tetzel  preaches 


else's  st<ory.  149 

daily,  and  exhorts  the  people  to  purchase  this  inestim- 
able favour  while  yet  there  is  time,  for  themselves  and 
their  relations  in  purgatory,  —  and  translates  the  long 
parchment  mandate  of  the  Lord  Pope,  with  the  papal 
seals  hanging  from  it.  On  the  other  side  is  a  table, 
where  sit  several  priests,  with  pen,  ink,  and  writing- 
desk,  selling  the  indulgence  tickets,  and  counting  the 
money  into  boxes.  Lately,  he  told  us,  not  only  have  the 
prices  been  reduced,  but  at  the  end  of  the  letter  affixed 
to  the  churches,  it  is  added,  " Pauperibus  dentur  gratis." 

"Freely  to  the  poor!"  That  certainly  would  suit 
us!  And  if  I  had  only  time  to  make  a  pilgrimage  to 
Annaberg,  if  this  is  the  kind  of  religion  that  pleases 
God,  it  certainly  might  be  attainable  even  for  me. 

If  Fritz  had  only  known  it  before,  he  need  not 
have  made  that  miserable  vow.  A  journey  to  Annaberg 
would  have  more  than  answered  the  purpose. 

Only,  if  the  Pope  has  such  inestimable  treasures  at 
his  disposal,  why  could  he  not  always  give  them  "freely 
to  the  poor,"  always  and  everywhere? 

But  I  know  it  is  a  sin  to  question  what  the  Lord 
Pope  does.  I  might  almost  as  well  question  what  the 
Lord  God  Almighty  does.  For  He  also,  who  gave 
those  treasures  to  the  Pope,  is  He  not  everywhere,  and 
could  He  not  give  them  freely  to  us  direct?  It  is  plain 
these  are  questions  too  high  for  me. 

I  am  not  the  only  one  perplexed  by  those  indul- 
gences, however.  My  mother  says  it  is  not  the  way 
she  was  taught,  and  she  had  rather  keep  to  the  old 
paths.  Eva  said,  "If  I  were  the  Lord  Pope,  and  had 
such  a  treasure,  I  think  I  could  not  help  instantly  leav- 
ing my  palace  and  my  beautiful  Rome,  and  going  over 
the  mountains  and  over  the  seas,   into  every  city  and 


150     CHRONICLES  OP   THE  SCHONBERG-COTTA  FAMILY. 

every  village;  every  hut  in  the  forests,  and  every  room 
in  the  lowest  streets,  that  none  might  miss  the  blessing, 
although  I  had  to  walk  barefoot,  and  never  saw  holy 
Rome  again." 

"But  then,"  said  our  father,  "the  great  church  at 
St.  Peter's  would  never  be  built.  It  is  on  that,  you 
know,  the  indulgence  money  is  to  be  spent." 

"But  Jerusalem  the  Golden  would  be  built,  Uncle 
Cotta!"  said  Eva;  "and  would  not  that  be  better?" 

"We  had  better  not  talk  about  it,  Eva,"  said  the 
mother.  "The  holy  Jerusalem  is  being  built;  and  I 
suppose  there  are  many  different  ways  to  the  same  end. 
Only  I  like  the  way  I  know  best." 

The  boys,  I  regret  to  say,  had  made  many  irreverent 
gestures  during  this  conversation  about  the  indulgences, 
and  afterwards  I  had  to  speak  to  them. 

"Sister  Else,"  said  Christopher,  "it  is  quite  useless 
talking  to  me.  I  hate  the  monks,  and  all  belonging 
to  them.  And  I  do  not  believe  a  word  they  say  —  at 
least,  not  because  they  say  it.  The  boys  at  school  say 
this  Dr.  Tetzel  is  a  very  bad  man,  and  a  great  liar. 
Last  week  Reinhardt  told  us  something  he  did,  which 
will  show  you  what  he  is.  One  day  he  promised  to 
show  the  people  a  feather  which  the  devil  plucked  out  of 
the  wing  of  the  archangel  Michael.  Reinhardt  says  he 
supposes  the  devil  gave  it  to  Dr.  Tetzel.  However  that 
may  be,  during  the  night  some  students  in  jest  found 
their  way  to  his  relic-box,  stole  the  feather,  and  re- 
placed it  by  some  coals.  The  next  day,  when  Dr. 
Tetzel  had  been  preaching  fervently  for  a  long  time  on 
the  wonders  of  this  feather,  when  he  opened  the  box 
there  was  nothing  in  it  but  charcoal.  But  he  was  not 
to  be  disconcerted.     He   merely   said,   'I   have  taken 


else's  story.  151 

the  wrong  box  of  relics,  I  perceive;  these  are  some 
most  sacred  cinders  —  the  relics  of  the  holy  body  of 
St.  Laurence,  who  was  roasted  on  a  gridiron.'" 

"Schoolboys'  stories,"  said  I. 

"They  are  as  good  as  monks'  stories,  at  all  events," 
rejoined  Christopher. 

I  resolved  to  see  if  Pollux  was  as  deeply  possessed 
with  this  irreverent  spirit  as  Christopher,  and  therefore 
this  morning,  when  I  found  him  alone,  I  said,  "Pollux, 
you  used  to  love  Fritz  so  dearly,  you  would  not  surely 
take  up  thoughts  which  would  pain  him  so  deeply  if 
he  knew  of  it." 

"I  do  love  Fritz,"  Pollux  replied,  "but  I  can  never 
think  he  was  right  in  leaving  us  all;  and  I  like  the 
religion  of  the  Creeds  and  the  Ten  Commandments 
better  than  that  of  the  monks." 

Daily,  hourly  I  feel  'the  loss  of  Fritz.  It  is  not 
half  as  much  the  money  he  earned;  although,  of  course, 
that  helped  us ;  we  can  and  do  struggle  on  without  that. 
It  is  the  influence  he  had  over  the  boys.  They  felt  he 
was  before  them  in  the  same  race;  and  when  he  remon- 
strated with  them  about  anything,  they  listened.  But 
if  I  blame  them,  they  think  it  is  only  a  woman's  ignor- 
ance, or  a  woman's  superstition,  —  and  boys,  they 
say,  cannot  be  like  women.  And  now  it  is  the  same 
with  Fritz.  He  is  removed  into  another  sphere,  which 
is  not  theirs;  and  if  I  remind  them  of  what  he  did  or 
said,  they  say,  "Yes,  Fritz  thought  so;  but  you  know 
he  has  become  a  monk;  but  we  do  not  intend  ever  to 
be  monks,  and  the  religion  of  monks  and  laymen  are 
different  things." 

April  2. 

The  spring  is  come  again.    I  wonder  if  it  sends  the 


152     CHRONICLES  OF  THE  SCHONBERG-COTTA  FAMILY. 

thrill  of  joy  into  Fritz's  cell  at  Erfurt  that  it  does  into 
all  the  forests  around  us  here,  and  into  my  heart! 

I  suppose  there  are  trees  near  him,  and  birds  — 
little  happy  birds  —  making  their  nests  among  them, 
as  they  do  in  our  yard,  and  singing  as  they  work. 

But  the  birds  are  not  monks.  Their  nests  are  little 
homes,  and  they  wander  freely  whither  they  will,  only 
brought  back  by  love.  Perhaps  Fritz  does  not  like  to 
listen  to  the  birds  now,  because  they  remind  him  of 
home,  and  of  our  long  spring  days  in  the  forest.  Per- 
haps, too,  they  are  part  of  the  world  he  has  renounced-, 
and  he  must  be  dead  to  the  world! 


We  have  had  a  long  day  in  the  forest,  gathering 
sticks  and  dry  twigs.  Every  creature  seemed  so  happy 
there !  It  was  such  a  holiday  to  'watch  the  ants  roofing 
their  nests  with  fir  twigs,  and  the  birds  flying  hither 
and  thither  with  food  for  their  nestlings;  and  to  hear 
the  wood-pigeons,  which  Fritz  always  said  were  like 
Eva,  cooing  softly  in  the  depths  of  the  forest. 

At  mid-day  we  sat  down  in  a  clearing  of  the  forest, 
to  enjoy  the  meal  we  had  brought  with  us.  A  little 
quiet  brook  prattled  near  us,  of  which  we  drank,  and 
the  delicate  young  twigs  on  the  topmost  boughs  of  the 
dark,  majestic  pines  trembled  softly,  as  if  for  joy,  in 
the  breeze. 

As  we  rested,  we  told  each  other  stories.  Pollux 
began  with  wild  tales  of  demon  hunts,  which  flew  with 
the  baying  of  demon  dogs  through  these  very  forests  at 
midnight.  Then,  as  the  children  began  to  look  fear- 
fully around,  and  shiver,  even  at  mid-day,  while  they 
listened,  Christopher  delighted  them  with  quaint  stories 


else's  story.  153 

of  wolves  in  sheeps'  clothing  politely  offering  themselves 
to  the  farmer  as  shepherds,  which,  T  suspect,  were  from 
some  dangerous  satirical  book,  but,  without  the  applica- 
tion, were  very  amusing. 

Chriemhild  and  Atlantis  had  their  stories  of  Kobolds, 
who  played  strange  tricks  in  the  cow-stall ;  and  of  Kiibe- 
zahl  and  the  misshapen  dwarf  gnomes,  who  guarded 
the  treasures  of  gold  and  silver  in  the  glittering  caves 
under  the  mountains;  and  of  the  elves,  who  danced  be- 
side the  brooks  at  twilight. 

"And  I,"  said  loving  little  Thekla,  "always  want 
to  see  poor  Nix,  the  water-sprite,  who  cries  by  the 
streams  at  moonlight,  and  lets  his  tears  mix  with  the 
waters,  because  he  has  no  soul,  and  he  wants  to  live 
for  ever.     I  should  like  to  give  him  half  mine." 

We  should  all  of  us  have  been  afraid  to  speak  of 
these  creatures,  in  their  own  haunts  among  the  pines, 
if  the  sun  had  not  been  high  in  the  heavens.  Even  as 
it  was,  I  began  to  feel  a  little  uneasy,  and  I  wished  to 
turn  the  conversation  from  these  elves  and  sprites,  who, 
many  think,  are  the  spirits  of  the  old  heathen  gods, 
who  linger  about  their  haunts.  One  reason  why  people 
think  so  is,  that  they  dare  not  venture  within  the  sound 
of  the  church  bells;  which  makes  some,  again,  think 
they  are  worse  than  poor,  shadowy,  dethroned  heathen 
gods,  and  had,  indeed,  better  be  never  mentioned  at 
all.  I  thought  I  could  not  do  better  than  tell  the 
legend  of  my  beloved  giant  Offerus,  who  became 
Christopher  and  a  saint  by  carrying  the  holy  child 
across  the  river. 

Thekla  wondered  if  her  favourite  Nix  could  be 
saved  in  the  same  way.  She  longed  to  see  him  and 
tell  him  about  it. 


154     CHRONICLES   OF  THE  SCHONBERG-COTTA   FAMILY. 

But  Eva  had  still  her  story  to  tell,  and  she  related 
to  us  her  legend  of  St.  Catharine. 

"St.  Catharine,"  she  said,  "was  a  lady  of  royal 
hirth,  the  only  child  of  the  king  and  queen  of  Egypt. 
Her  parents  were  heathens,  but  they  died  and  left  her 
an  orphan  when  she  was  only  fourteen.  She  was  more 
beautiful  than  any  of  the  ladies  of  her  court,  and  richer 
than  any  princess  in  the  world;  but  she  did  not  care 
for  pomp,  or  dress,  or  all  her  precious  things.  God's 
golden  stars  seemed  to  her  more  magnificent  than  all 
the  splendour  of  her  kingdom ,  and  she  shut  herself  up 
in  her  palace,  and  studied  philosophy  and  the  stars 
until  she  grew  wiser  than  all  the  wise  men  of  the 
East. 

"But  one  day  the  Diet  of  Egypt  met,  and  resolved 
that  their  young  queen  must  be  persuaded  to  marry. 
They  sent  a  deputation  to  her  in  her  palace,  who 
asked  her,  if  they  could  find  a  prince  beautiful  beyond 
any,  surpassing  all  philosophers  in  wisdom,  of  noblest 
mind  and  richest  inheritance,  would  she  marry  him? 
The  queen  replied,  'He  must  be  so  noble  that  all  men 
shall  worship  him,  so  great  that  I  shall  never  think  I 
have  made  him  king,  so  rich  that  none  shall  ever  say 
I  enriched  him,  so  beautiful  that  the  angels  of  God 
shall  desire  to  behold  him.  If  ye  can  find  such  a 
prince,  he  shall  be  my  husband  and  the  lord  of  my 
heart.'  Now,  near  the  queen's  palace  there  lived  a 
poor  old  hermit  in  a  cave,  and  that  very  night  the  holy 
Mother  of  God  appeared  to  him,  and  told  him  the 
King  who  should  be  lord  of  the  queen's  heart  was  none 
other  than  her  Son.  Then  the  hermit  went  to  the 
palace  and  presented  the  queen  with  a  picture  of  the 
Virgin  and  Child;  and  when  St.  Catharine  saw  it  her 


else's  story.  155 

heart  was  so  filled  with  its  holy  beauty  that  she  forgot 
her  books,  her  spheres,  and  the  stars-,  Plato  and  So- 
crates became  tedious  to  her  as  a  twice-told  tale,  and 
she  kept  the  sacred  picture  always  before  her.  Then 
one  night  she  had  a  dream:  —  She  met  on  the  top  of 
a  high  mountain  a  glorious  company  of  angels,  clothed 
in  white,  with  chaplets  of  white  lilies.  She  fell  on  her 
face  before  them,  but  they  said,  'Stand  up,  dear  sister 
Catharine,  and  be  right  welcome.'  Then  they  led  her 
by  the  hand  to  another  company  of  angels  more  glori- 
ous still,  clothed  in  purple  with  chaplets  of  red  roses. 
Before  these,  again,  she  fell  on  her  face,  dazzled  with 
their  glory;  but  they  said,  'Stand  up,  dear  sister 
Catharine;  thee  hath  the  King  delighted  to  honour.' 
Then  they  led  her  by  the  hand  to  an  inner  chamber 
of  the  palace  of  heaven,  where  sat  a  queen  in  state; 
and  the  angels  said  to  her,  '  Our  most  gracious  sovereign 
Lady,  Empress  of  heaven,  and  Mother  of  the  King  of 
Blessedness,  be  pleased  that  we  present  unto  you  this 
our  sister,  whose  name  is  in  the  Book  of  Life,  be- 
seeching you  to  accept  her  as  your  daughter  and  hand- 
maid.' Then  our  blessed  Lady  rose  and  smiled  graci- 
ously, and  led  St.  Catharine  to  her  blessed  Son;  but 
he  turned  from  her,  and  said  sadly,  'She  is  not  fair 
enough  for  Me.'  Then  St.  Catharine  awoke,  and  in 
her  heart  all  day  echoed  the  words,  lShe  is  not  fair 
enough  for  Me;'  and  she  rested  not  until  she  became  a 
Christian  and  was  baptized.  And  then,  after  some 
years,  the  tyrant  Maximin  put  her  to  cruel  tortures, 
and  beheaded  her  because  she  was  a  Christian.  But 
the  angels  took  her  body,  and  laid  it  in  a  white  marble 
tomb  on  the  top  of  Mount  Sinai,  and  the  Lord  Jesus 
Christ  received  her  soul,  and  welcomed  her  to  heaven 


lob      CHRONICLES   OF  THE   SCHONBERG-COTTA  FAMILY. 

as  his  pure  and  spotless  bride;  for  at  last  he  had  made 
her  ''fair  enough  for  Mm?  And  so  she  has  lived  ever 
since  in  heaven,  and  is  the  sister  of  the  angels." 

After  Eva's  legend  we  began  our  work  again;  and 
in  the  evening,  as  we  returned  with  our  faggots,  it  was 
pleasant  to  see  the  goats  creeping  on  before  the  long 
shadows  which  evening  began  to  throw  from  the  forests 
across  the  green  valleys. 

The  hymns  which  Eva  sang  as  we  went,  seemed 
quite  in  tune  with  everything  else.  I  did  not  want  to 
understand  the  words;  everything  seemed  singing  in 
words  I  could  not  help  feeling,  — 

"God  is  good  to  us  all.  He  gives  twigs  to  the 
ants,  and  grain  to  the  birds,  and  makes  the  trees  their 
palaces,  and  teaches  them  to  sing;  and  will  He  not 
care  for  you?" 

Then  the  boys  were  so  good!  They  never  gave 
me  a  moment's  anxiety,  not  even  Christopher,  but 
collected  faggots  twice  as  large  as  ours  in  half  the 
time,  and  then  finished  ours,  and  then  performed  all 
kinds  of  feats  in  climbing  trees  and  leaping  brooks, 
and  brought  home  countless  treasures  for  Thekla. 

These  are  the  days  that  always  make  me  feel  so 
much  better;  even  a  little  religious,  and  as  if  I  could 
almost  love  God!  It  is  only  when  I  come  back  again 
into  the  streets,  under  the  shadow  of  the  ninemonasteri.es, 
and  see  the  monks  and  priests  in  dark  robes  flitting 
silently  about  with  downcast  eyes,  that  I  remember  we 
are  not  like  the  birds  or  even  the  ants,  for  they  have 
never  sinned,  and  that,  therefore,  God  cannot  care  for 
us  and  love  us  as  he  seems  to  do  the  least  of  his  other 
creatures,  until  we  have  become  holy,  and  worked  our 


else's  story.  157 

way  through  that  great  wall  of  sin  which  keeps  us  from 
him  and  shadows  all  our  life. 

Eva  does  not  feel  thus.  As  we  returned  she  laid 
her  basket  down  on  the  threshold  of  St.  George's 
Church,  and  crossing  herself  with  holy  water,  went 
softly  up  to  the  high  altar,  and  there  she  knelt  while 
the  lamp  burned  before  the  Holy  Sacrament.  And 
when  I  looked  at  her  face  as  she  rose,  it  was  beaming 
with  joy. 

"You  are  happy,  Eva,  in  the  church  and  in  the 
forest,"  I  said  to  her  as  we  went  home;  "you  seem  at 
home  everywhere." 

"Is  not  God  everywhere?"  she  said;  "and  has  He 
not  loved  the  world?" 

"But  our  smsf'1  I  said. 

"Have  we  not  the  Saviour?"  she  said,  bowing  her 
head. 

"But  think  how  hard  people  find  it  to  please  him," 
I  said.  "Think  of  the  pilgrimages,  the  penances,  the 
indulgences!" 

"I  do  not  quite  understand  all  that,"  she  said;  "I 
only  quite  understand  my  sentence  and  the  crucifix 
which  tells  us  the  Son  of  God  died  for  man.  That 
must  have  been  from  love,  and  I  love  him ;  and  all  the 
rest  I  am  content  to  leave." 

"But  to-night  as  I  look  at  her  dear  childlike  face 
asleep  on  the  pillow,  and  see  how  thin  the  cheek  is 
which  those  long  lashes  shade,  and  how  transparent  the 
little  hand  on  which  she  rests,  a  cold  fear  comes  over 
me  lest  God  should  even  now  be  making  her  spirit 
"fair  enough  for  him,"  and  so  too  fair  for  earth  and 
for  us. 


158     CHRONICLES   OF  THE   SCHONBERG-COTl'A  FAMILY. 

April  4. 

This  afternoon  I  was  quite  cheered  by  seeing 
Christopher  and  Pollux  bending  together  eagerly  over 
a  book,  which  they  had  placed  before  them  on  the 
window-sill.  It  reminded  me  of  Fritz,  and  I  went  up 
to  see  what  they  were  reading. 

I  found,  however,  to  my  dismay,  it  was  no  church- 
book  or  learned  Latin  school-book;  but,  on  the  contrary, 
a  German  book  full  of  woodcuts,  which  shocked  me 
very  much.  It  was  called  Reinecke  Fucks,  and  as  far 
as  I  could  understand  made  a  jest  of  everything.  There 
were  foxes  with  monk's  frocks,  and  even  in  cardinal's 
hats,  and  wolves  in  cassocks  with  shaven  crowns.  Al- 
together it  seemed  to  me  a  very  profane  and  perilous 
book-,  but  when  I  took  it  to  our  father,  to  my  amaze- 
ment he  seemed  as  much  amused  with  it  as  the  boys, 
and  said  there  were  evils  in  the  world  which  were 
better  attacked  by  jests  than  by  sermons. 

April,  St.  Mark's  Day. 

1  have  just  heard  a  sermon  about  despising  the 
world,  from  a  great  preacher,  one  of  the  Dominican 
friars,  who  is  going  through  the  land  to  awaken  people 
to  religion. 

He  spoke  especially  against  money,  which  he  called 
"delusion,  and  dross,  and  worthless  dust,  and  a  soul- 
destroying  canker."  To  monks  no  doubt  it  may  be 
so;  for  what  could  they  do  with  it?  But  it  is  not  so 
to  me.  Yesterday  money  filled  my  heart  with  one  of 
the  purest  joys  I  have  ever  known,  and  made  me  thank 
God  as  I  hardly  ever  thanked  him  before. 

The  time  had  come  round  to  pay  for  some  of  the 
printing  materials,  and  we  did  not  know  where  to  turn 


else's  story.  159 

for  the  sum  we  needed.  Lately  I  have  been  employing 
my  leisure  hours  in  embroidering  some  tine  Venetian 
silk  Aunt  Ursula  gave  me;  and  not  having  any  copies, 
I  had  brought  in  some  fresh  leaves  and  flowers  from 
the  forest  and  tried  to  imitate  them,  hoping  to  sell  them. 

When  I  had  finished,  it  was  thought  pretty,  and  I 
carried  it  to  the  merchant  who  took  the  father's  pre- 
cious models,  long  ago. 

He  has  always  been  kind  to  us  since,  and  has  pro- 
cured us  ink  and  paper  at  a  cheaper  rate  than  others 
can  buy  it. 

When  I  showed  him  my  work  he  seemed  surprised, 
and  instead  of  showing  it  to  his  wife,  as  I  had  expected, 
he  said  smiling,  — 

"These  things  are  not  for  poor  honest  burghers 
like  me.  You  know  my  wife  might  be  fined  by  the 
sumptuary  laws  if  she  aped  the  nobility  by  wearing 
anything  so  fine  as  this.  I  am  going  to  the  Wartburg 
to  speak  about  a  commission  I  have  executed  for  the 
Elector-Frederick,  and  if  you  like  I  will  take  you  and 
your  embroidery  with  me." 

I  felt  dismayed  at  first  at  such  an  idea,  but  I  had 
on  the  new  dress  Fritz  gave  me  a  year  ago,  and  I  re- 
solved to  venture. 

It  was  so  many  years  since  I  had  passed  through 
that  massive  gateway  into  the  great  court-yard;  and  I 
thought  of  St.  Elizabeth  distributing  loaves,  perhaps, 
at  that  very  gate,  and  inwardly  entreated  her  to  make 
the  elector  or  the  ladies  of  his  court  propitious  to  me. 

I  was  left  standing  what  seemed  to  me  a  long  time, 
in  an  ante-room.  Some  very  gaily  dressed  gentlemen 
and  ladies  passed  me  and  looked  at  me  rather  scorn- 
fully.     I    thought    the   courtiers   were  not    much   im- 


160     CHRONICLES   OF  THE   SCHONBERG-COTTA  FAMILY. 

|>roved  since  the  days  when  they  were  so  rude  to  St. 
Elizabeth. 

But  at  last  I  was  summoned  into  the  Elector's  pre- 
sence. I  trembled  very  much,  for  I  thought  —  If  the 
servants  are  so  haughty,  what  will  the  master  be?  But 
he  smiled  on  me  quite  kindly,  and  said,  "My  good 
child ,  I  like  this  work  of  thine ;  and  this  merchant  tells 
me  thou  art  a  dutiful  daughter.  I  will  purchase  this 
at  once  for  one  of  my  sisters,  and  pay  thee  at  once." 

I  was  so  surprised  and  delighted  with  his  kindness 
that  I  cannot  remember  the  exact  words  of  what  he 
said  afterwards,  but  the  substance  of  them  was  that 
the  elector  is  building  a  new  church  at  his  new  uni- 
versity town  of  Wittenberg  which  is  to  have  choicer 
relics  than  any  church  in  Germany.  And  I  am  en- 
gaged to  embroider  altar-cloths  and  coverings  for  the 
reliquaries.  And  the  sum  already  paid  me  nearly 
covers  our  present  debt. 

ISTo!  whatever  that  Dominican  preacher  might  say, 
nothing  would  ever  persuade  me  that  these  precious 
guldens,  which  I  took  home  yesterday  evening  with  a 
heart  brimming  over  with  joy  and  thankfulness,  which 
made  our  father  clasp  his  hands  in  thanksgiving,  and 
our  mother's  eyes  overflow  with  happy  tears,  are  mere 
delusion,  or  dross,  or  dust. 

Is  not  money  what  we  make  it?  Dust  in  the  miser's 
chests;  canker  in  the  proud  man's  heart;  but  golden 
sunbeams,  streams  of  blessing  earned  by  a  child's 
labour  and  comforting  a  parent's  heart,  or  lovingly 
poured  from  rich  men's  hands  into  poor  men's  homes. 

Apu,l%0. 

Better    days   seem    dawning   at    last.     Dr.    Martin, 


ELSE'S  STORY.  161 

who  preaches  now  at  the  elector's  new  university  of 
Wittenberg,  must,  we  think,  have  spoken  to  the  elec- 
tor for  us,  and  our  father  is  appointed  to  superintend 
the  printing-press  especially  for  Latin  books,  which  is 
to  be  set  up  there. 

And  sweeter  even  than  this,  it  must  be  from  Fritz 
that  this  boon  comes  to  us.  Fritz,  dear  unselfish  Fritz, 
is  the  benefactor  of  the  family  after  all.  It  must  have 
been  he  who  asked  Dr.  Martin  Luther  to  speak  for  us. 
There,  in  his  lonely  cell  at  Erfurt,  he  thinks  then  of 
us!  And  he  prays  for  us.  He  will  never  forget  us. 
His  new  name  will  not  alter  his  heart.  And,  perhaps 
one  day,  when  the  novitiate  is  over,  we  may  see  him 
again.  But  to  see  him  as  no  more  our  Fritz,  but  Bro- 
ther Sebastian!  —  his  home,  the  Augustinian  cloister! 
■ — ■  his  mother,  the  church!  —  his  sisters,  all  holy  wo- 
men! —  would  it  not  be  almost  worse  than  not  seeing 
him  at  all? 

We  are  all  to  move  to  Wittenberg  in  a  month,  ex- 
cept Pollux,  who  is  to  remain  with  Cousin  Conrad 
Cotta,  to  learn  to  be  a  merchant. 

Christopher  begins  to  help  about  the  printing. 

There  was  another  thing  also  in  my  visit  to  the 
Wartburg,  which  gives  me  many  a  gleam  of  joy  when 
I  think  of  it.  If  the  elector,  whose  presence  I  so 
trembled  to  enter,  proved  so  much  more  condescending 
and  accessible  than  his  courtiers,  —  oh,  if  it  could 
only  be  possible  that  we  are  making  some  mistake 
about  God,  and  that  He  after  all  may  be  more  gracious 
and  ready  to  listen  to  us  than  His  priests,  or  even 
than  the  saints  who  wait  on  Him  in  His  palace  in 
heaven ! 


Schouberg-Cotta  Family.   I.  11 


162     CHRONICLES  OP  THE  SCHONBERG-COTTA  FAMILY. 

vni. 

fritz's  story. 

Erfurt,  Augustinian  Convent,  April  1. 

I  suppose  conflict  of  mind,  working  on  a  constitu- 
tion weakened  by  the  plague,  brought  on  the  illness 
from  which  I  am  just  recovering.  It  is  good  to  feel 
strength  returning  as  I  do.  There  is  a  kind  of  natural 
irresistible  delight  in  life,  however  little  we  have  to 
live  for,  especially  to  one  so  little  prepared  to  die  as  I 
am.  As  I  write,  the  rooks  are  cawing  in  the  church- 
yard elms ,  disputing  and  chattering  like  a  set  of  busy 
prosaic  burghers.  But  retired  from  all  this  noisy 
public  life,  two  thrushes  have  built  their  nest  in  a 
thorn  just  under  the  window  of  my  cell.  And  early 
in  the  morning  they  wake  me  with  song.  He  flies 
hither  and  thilher  as  busy  as  a  bee,  with  food  for  his 
mate,  as  she  broods  secure  among  the  thick  leaves, 
and  then  he  perches  on  a  twig,  and  sings  as  if  he  had 
nothing  to  do  but  to  be  happy.  All  is  pleasure  to 
him,  no  doubt  —  the  work  as  well  as  the  singing. 
Happy  the  creatures  for  whom  it  is  God's  will  that 
they  should  live  according  to  their  nature,  and  not 
contrary  to  it. 

Probably  in  the  recovering  from  illness,  when  the 
body  is  still  weak,  yet  thrilling  with  reviving  strength, 
the  heart  is  especially  tender,  and  yearns  more  towards 
home  and  former  life  than  it  will  when  strength  returns 
and  brings  duties.  Or,  perhaps,  this  illness  recalls  the 
last,  —  and  the  loving  faces  and  soft  hushed  voices 
that  were  around  me  then. 


fritz's  stouy.  163 

Yet  I  have  nothing  to  complain  of.  My  aged  con- 
fessor has  scarcely  left  my  bedside.  From  the  first  he 
brought  his  bed  into  my  cell,  and  watched  over  me 
like  a  father. 

And  his  words  minister  to  my  heart  as  much  as  his 
hands  to  my  bodily  wants. 

If  my  spirit  would  only  take  the  comfort  he  offers, 
as  easily  as  I  receive  food  and  medicine  from  his  hands! 

He  does  not  attempt  to  combat  my  difficulties  one 
by  one.     He  says  — ■ 

"I  am  little  of  a  physician.  I  cannot  lay  my  hand 
on  the  seat  of  disease.  But  there  is  One  who  can." 
And  to  Him  I  know  the  simple-hearted  old  man  prays 
for  me. 

Often  he  recurs  to  the  declaration  in  the  creed,  "I 
believe  in  the  forgiveness  of  sins."  "It  is  the  com- 
mand of  God,"  he  said  to  me  one  day,  "that  we 
should  believe  in  the  forgiveness  of  sins ;  not  of  David's 
or  Peter's  sins,  but  of  ours,  our  own,  the  very  sins 
that  distress  our  consciences."  He  also  quoted  a  ser- 
mon of  St.  Bernard's  on  the  annunciation. 

"The  testimony  of  the  Holy  Ghost  given  in  thy 
heart  is  this,  'Thy  sins  are  forgiven  thee.'" 

Yes,  forgiven  to  all  penitents.'  But  who  can  assure 
me  I  am  a  true  penitent? 

These  words,  he  told  me,  comforted  Brother  Martin, 
and  he  wonders  they  do  not  comfort  me.  I  suppose 
Brother  Martin  had  "the  testimony  of  the  Holy  Ghost 
in  his  heart;"  but  who  shall  give  that  to  me?  to  me 
who  resisted  the  vocation  of  the  Holy  Ghost  so  long; 
who  in  my  deepest  heart  obey  it  so  imperfectly  still! 

Brother  Martin  was  faithful,  honest,  thorough,  single- 
hearted,  —  all  that  God  accepts;  all  that  I  am  not! 

11* 


164     CHRONICLES   OP  THE  SCHONBERG-COTTA  FAMILY. 

The  affection  and  compassion  of  my  aged  confessor 
often,  however,  comfort  me,  even  when  his  words  have 
little  power.  They  make  me  feel  a  dim  hope  now  and 
then  that  the  Lord  he  serves  may  have  something  of 
the  same  pity  in  his  heart. 

Ekfurt,  April  15. 

The  Vicar- General ,  Staupitz,  has  visited  our  con- 
vent. I  have  confessed  to  him.  He  was  very  gentle 
with  me,  and  to  my  surprise  prescribed  me  scarcely 
any  penance,  although  I  endeavoured  to  unveil  all  to 
him. 

Once  he  murmured,  as  if  to  himself,  looking  at  me 
with  a  penetrating  compassion,  "Yes,  there  is  no  draw- 
ing back.  But  I  wish  I  had  known  this  before."  And 
then  he  added  to  me,  "Brother,  we  must  not  confuse 
suffering  with  sin.  It  is  sin  to  turn  back.  It  may  be 
anguish  to  look  back  and  see  what  we  have  renounced, 
but  it  is  not  necessarily  sin,  if  we  resolutely  press  for- 
ward still.  And  if  sin  mingles  with  the  regret;  re- 
member we  have  to  do  not  with  a  painted,  but  a  real 
Saviour;  and  he  died  not  for  painted  but  for  real  sins. 
Sin  is  never  overcome  by  looking  at  it,  but  by  looking 
away  from  it  to  Him  who  bore  our  sins,  yours  and 
mine,  on  the  cross.  The  heart  is  never  won  back  to 
God  by  thinking  we  ought  to  love  him,  but  by  learn- 
ing what  he  is ,  all  worthy  of  our  love.  True  repent- 
ance begins  with  the  love  of  God.  The  Holy  Spirit 
teaches  us  to  know,  and,  therefore,  to  love  God.  Fear 
not,  but  read  the  Scriptures,  and  pray.  He  will  em- 
ploy thee  in  his  service  yet,  and  in  his  favour  is  life, 
and  in  his  service  is  freedom.1' 

This  confession  gave  me  great  comfort  for  the  time. 
I   felt  myself  understood,   and   yet  not  despaired   of. 


fritz's  story.  165 

And  that  evening,  after  repeating  the  Hours,  I  ven- 
tured in  my  own  words  to  pray  to  God,  and  found  it 
solemn  and  sweet. 

But  since  then  my  old  fear  has  recurred.  Did  I 
indeed  confess  completely  even  to  the  Vicar-General? 
If  I  had,  would  not  his  verdict  have  been  different? 
Does  not  the  very  mildness  of  his  judgment  prove  that 
I  have  once  more  deceived  myself  —  made  a  false 
confession,  and,  therefore,  failed  of  the  absolution!  But 
it  is  a  relief  to  have  his  positive  command  as  my  su- 
perior to  study  the  Holy  Scriptures,  instead  of  the 
scholastic,  theologians,  to  whose  writings  my  preceptor 
had  lately  been  exclusively  directing  my  studies. 

April  25. 

I  have  this  day,  to  my  surprise,  received  a  com- 
mand, issuing  from  the  Vicar-General,  to  prepare  to 
set  off  on  a  mission  to  Rome. 

The  monk  under  whose  direction  I  am  to  journey 
I  do  not  yet  know. 

The  thought  of  the  new  scenes  we  shall  pass 
through,  and  the  wonderful  new  world  we  shall  enter 
on,  —  new  and  old,  —  fills  me  with  an  almost  childish 
delight.  Since  I  heard  it,  my  heart  and  conscience 
seem  to  have  become  strangely  lightened,  which  proves, 
I  fear,  how  little  real  earnestness  there  is  in  me. 

Another  thing,  however,  has  comforted  me  greatly. 
In  the  course  of  my  confession  I  spoke  to  the  Vicar- 
General  about  my  family,  and  he  has  procured  for  my 
father  an  appointment  as  superintendent  of  the  Latin 
printing  press,  at  the  Elector's  new  University  of  Wit- 
tenberg. 

I  trust  now  that  the  heavy  pressure  of  pecuniary 


1P.G     CHRONICLES   OF  THE  SCHONBERG-COTTA  FAMILY. 

care  which  has  weighed  so  long  on  my  mother  and 
Else  will  be  relieved.  It  would  have  been  sweeter  to 
me  to  have  earned  this  relief  for  them  by  my  own 
exertions.  But  we  must  not  choose  the  shape  or  the 
time  in  which  divine  messengers  shall  appear. 

The  Vicar- General  has,  moreover,  presented  me 
with  a  little  volume  of  sermons  by  a  pious  Dominican 
friar,  named  Tauler.  These  are  wonderfully  deep  and 
heart-searching.  I  find  it  difficult  to  reconcile  the 
sublime  and  enrapt  devotion  to  God  which  inspires 
them,  with  the  minute  rules  of  our  order,  the  details  of 
scholastic  casuistry,  and  the  precise  directions  as  to  the 
measure  of  worship  and  honour,  Dulia,  Hyperdulia,  and 
Latria  to  be  paid  to  the  various  orders  of  heavenly 
beings,  which  make  prayer  often  seem  as  perplexing  to 
me  as  the  ceremonial  of  the  imperial  court  would  to  a 
peasant  of  the  Thuringian  forest. 

This  Dominican  speaks  as  if  we  might  soar  above 
all  these  lower  things,  and  lose  ourselves  in  the  One 
Ineffable  Source,  Ground,  Beginning,  and  End  of  all 
Being-,  the  One  who  is  all. 

Dearer  to  me,  however,  than  this,  is  an  old  manu- 
script in  our  convent  library,  containing  the  confessions 
of  the  patron  of  our  order  himself,  the  great  father 
Augustine. 

Straight  from  his  heart  it  penetrates  into  mine,  as 
if  spoken  to  me  to-day.  Passionate,  fervent,  struggling, 
wandering,  trembling,  adoring  heart,  I  feel  its  pulses 
through  every  line ! 

And  was  this  the  experience  of  one  who  is  now  a 
saint  on  the  most  glorious  heights  of  heaven  ? 

Then  the  mother!  Patient,  lowly,  noble,  saintly 
Monica;    mother,   and   more  than   martyr.      She  rises 


fritz's  story.  167 

before  me  in  the  likeness  of  a  beloved  form  I  may  re- 
member without  sin,  even  here,  even  now.  St.  Monica 
speaks  to  me  with  my  mother's  voice;  and  in  the  nar- 
rative of  her  prayers  I  seem  to  gain  a  deeper  insight 
into  what  my  mother's  have  been  for  me. 

St.  Augustine  was  happy,  to  breathe  the  last  words 
of  comfort  to  her  himself  as  he  did,  to  be  with  her 
dwelling  in  one  house  to  the  last.  This  can  scarcely 
be  given  to  me.  "That  sweet  habit  of  living  together" 
is  broken  for  ever  between  us;  broken  by  my  deliberate 
act.  "For  the  glory  of  God!"  may  God  accept  it;  if 
not,  may  he  forgive  ! 

That  old  manuscript  is  worn  with  reading.  It  has 
lain  in  the  convent  library  for  certainly  more  than  a 
hundred  years.  Generation  after  generation  of  those 
who  now  lie  sleeping  in  the  field  of  God  below  our 
windows  have  turned  over  those  pages.  Heart  after 
heart  has  doubtless  come,  as  I  came,  to  consult  the 
oracle  of  that  deep  heart  of  old  times,  so  nearly  ship- 
wrecked, so  gloriously  saved. 

As  I  read  the  old  thumbed  volume,  a  company  of 
spirits  seems  to  breathe  in  fellowship  around  me,  and 
I  think  how  many,  strengthened  by  these  words,  are 
perhaps  even  now,  like  him  who  penned  them,  amongst 
the  spirits  of  the  just  made  perfect. 

In  the  convent  library,  the  dead  seem  to  live  again 
around  me.  In  the  cemetery  are  the  relics  of  the  cor- 
ruptible body.  Among  these  worn  volumes  I  feel  the 
breath  of  the  living  spirits  of  generations  passed  away. 

I  must  say,  however,  there  is  more  opportunity  for 
solitary  communion  with  the  departed  in  that  library 
than  I  could  wish.  The  books  are  not  so  much  read, 
certainly,  in  these   days,   as  the  Vicar-General  would 


168     CHRONICLES   OF  THE  SCHONBERG-COTTA  FAMILY. 

desire,  although  the  Augustinian  has  the  reputation  of 
being  among  the  more  learned  orders. 

I  often  question  what  brought  many  of  these  easy 
comfortable  monks  here.  But  many  of  the  faces  give 
no  reply  to  my  search.  No  history  seems  written  on 
them.  The  wrinkles  seem  mere  ruts  of  the  wheels  of 
Time,  not  furrows  sown  with  the  seeds  of  thought,  — 
happy  at  least  if  they  are  not  as  fissures  rent  by  the 
convulsions  of  inward  fires. 

I  suppose  many  of  the  brethren  became  monks  just 
as  other  men  become  tailors  or  shoemakers,  and  with 
no  further  spiritual  aim,  because  their  parents  planned 
it  so.  But  I  may  wrong  even  the  meanest  in  saying 
so.  The  shallowest  human  heart  has  depths  some- 
Avhere,  let  them  be  crusted  over  by  ice  ever  so  thick, 
or  veiled  by  flowers  ever  so  fair. 

And  I  —  I  and  this  unknown  brother  are  actually 
about  to  journey  to  Italy,  the  glorious  land  of  sun- 
shine, and  vines,  and  olives,  and  ancient  cities  —  the 
land  of  Rome,  imperial,  saintly  Rome,  where  countless 
martyrs  sleep,  where  St.  Augustine  and  Monica  so- 
journed, where  St.  Paul  and  St.  Peter  preached  and 
suffered,  —  where  the  vicar  of  Christ  lives  and  reigns  ? 

May  y. 

The  brother  with  whom  I  am  to  make  the  pil- 
grimage  to  Rome  arrived  last  night.  To  my  inex- 
pressible delight  it  is  none  other  than  Brother  Martin 
—  Martin  Luther !  Professor  of  Theology  in  the  Elec- 
tor's new  University  of  Wittenberg.  He  is  much 
changed  again  since  I  saw  him  last,  toiling  through 
the  streets  of  Erfurt  with  the  sack  on  his  shoulder. 
The  hollow,  worn  look,  has  disappeared  from  his  face, 


ram's  story.  169 

and  the  fire  has  come  back  to  his  eyes.  Their  ex- 
pression varies ,  indeed ,  often  from  the  sparkle  of  mer- 
riment to  a  grave  earnestness,  when  all  their  light 
seems  withdrawn  inward;  but  underneath  there  is  that 
kind  of  repose  I  have  noticed  in  the  countenance  of 
my  aged  confessor. 

Brother  Martin's  face  has,  indeed,  a  history  written 
on  it,  and  a  history,  I  deem,  not  yet  finished. 

Heidelberg,  May  25. 

I  wondered  at  the  lightness  of  heart  with  which  I 
set  out  on  our  journey  from  Erfurt. 

The  Vicar-General  himself  accompanied  us  hither. 
We  travelled  partly  on  horseback,  and  partly  in  wheeled 
carriages. 

The  conversation  turned  much  on  the  prospects  of 
the  new  university,  and  the  importance  of  finding  good 
professors  of  the  ancient  languages  for  it.  Brother 
Martin  himself  proposed  to  make  use  of  his  sojourn  at 
Rome,  to  improve  himself  in  Greek  and  Hebrew,  by 
studying  under  the  learned  Greeks  and  rabbis  there. 
They  counsel  me  also  to  do  the  same. 

The  business  which  calls  us  to  Rome  is  an  appeal 
to  the  Holy  Father,  concerning  a  dispute  between  some 
convents  of  our  Order  and  the  Vicar-General. 

But  they  say  business  is  slowly  conducted  at  Rome, 
and  will  leave  us  much  time  for  other  occupations  be- 
sides those  which  are  most  on  our  hearts,  namely, 
paying  homage  at  the  tombs  of  the  holy  postles  and 
martyrs. 

They  speak  most  respectfully  and  cordially  of  the 
Elector  Frederick,  who  must  indeed  be  a  very  de- 
vout prince.      Not  many  years  since,   he  accomplished 


170     CHRONICLES  OP  THE   SCHONBERG-COTTA  FAMILY. 

a  pilgrimage  to  Jerusalem,  and  took  with  him  the 
painter  Lucas  Cranach,  to  make  drawings  of  the  various 
holy  places. 

About  ten  years  since,  he  built  a  church  dedicated 
to  St.  Ursula,  on  the  site  of  the  small  chapel  erected 
in  1353,  over  the  Holy  Thorn  from  the  Crown  of 
Thorns,  presented  to  a  former  elector  by  the  king  of 
France. 

This  church  is  already,  they  say,  through  the  Elector 
Frederick's  diligence,  richer  in  relics  than  any  church 
in  Europe,  except  that  of  Assisi,  the  birthplace  of  St. 
Francis.  And  the  collection  is  still  continually  being 
increased. 

They  showed  me  a  book  printed  at  Wittenberg 
a  year  or  two  since,  entitled,  "A  Description  of  the 
Venerable  Relics ,"  adorned  with  one  hundred  and  nine- 
teen woodcuts. 

The  town  itself  seems  to  be  still  poor  and  mean 
compared  with  Eisenach  and  Erfurt;  and  the  students, 
of  whom  there  are  now  nearly  five  hundred,  are  at 
times  very  turbulent.  There  is  much  beer-drinking 
among  them.  In  1507,  three  years  since,  the  Bishop 
of  Brandenburg  laid  the  whole  city  under  interdict  for 
some  insult  offered  by  the  students  to  his  suite,  and 
now  they  are  forbidden  to  wear  guns,  swords,  or 
knives. 

Brother  Martin,  however,  is  full  of  hope  as  to  the 
good  to  be  done  among  them.  He  himself  received 
the  degree  of  Biblicus  (Bible  teacher)  on  the  9th  of 
March  last  year;  and  every  day  he  lectures  between 
twelve  and  one  o'clock. 

Last  summer,  for  the  first  time,  he  was  persuaded 
by   the   Vicar-General   to  preach  publicly.      I  heard 


fritz's  story.  171 

some  conversation  between  them  in  reference  to  this, 
which  afterwards  Brother  Martin  explained  to  me. 

Dr.  Staupitz  and  Brother  Martin  were  sitting  last 
summer  in  the  convent  garden  at  Wittenberg  together, 
under  the  shade  of  a  pear  tree,  whilst  the  Vicar- 
General  endeavoured  to  prevail  on  him  to  preach.  He 
was  exceedingly  unwilling  to  make  the  attempt.  "It 
is  no  little  matter,"  said  he  to  Dr.  Staupitz,  "to  appear 
before  the  people  in  the  place  of  God."  "I  had  fifteen 
arguments,"  he  continued,  in  relating  it  to  me,  "where- 
with I  purposed  to  resist  my  vocation ;  but  they  availed 
nothing.  At  the  last  I  said,  'Dr.  Staupitz,  you  will 
be  the  death  of  me ,  for  I  cannot  live  under  it  three 
months.'  'Very  well,'  replied  Dr.  Staupitz,  'still  go 
on.  Our  Lord  God  hath  many  great  things  to  accom- 
plish, and  he  has  need  of  wise  men  in  heaven  as  well 
as  in  earth.'  " 

Brother  Martin  could  not  further  resist,  and  after 
making  a  trial  before  the  brethren  in  the  refectory,  at 
last,  with  a  trembling  heart  he  mounted  the  pulpit  of 
the  little  chapel  of  the  Augustinian  cloister. 

"When  a  preacher  for  the  first  time  enters  the 
pulpit,"  he  concluded,  "no  one  would  believe  how 
fearful  he  is ;  he  sees  so  many  heads  before  him.  When 
I  go  into  the  pulpit,  I  do  not  look  on  any  one.  I 
think  them  only  to  be  so  many  blocks  before  me,  and 
I  speak  out  the  words  of  my  God." 

And  yet  Dr.  Staupitz  says  his  words  are  like 
thunder-peals.  Yet!  do  I  say?  Is  it  not  "because?  He 
feels  himself  nothing;  he  feels  his  message  everything; 
he  feels  God  present.  What  more  could  be  needed  to 
make  a  man  of  his  power  a  great  preacher? 

With   such    discourse   the  journey  seemed  accom- 


172     CHRONICLES   OF  THE   SCHONBERG-COTTA  FAMILY. 

plished  quickly  indeed.  And  yet,  almost  the  happiest 
hours  to  me  were  those  when  we  were  all  silent,  and 
the  new  scenes  passed  rapidly  hefore  me.  It  was  a 
great  rest  to  live  for  a  time  on  what  I  saw,  and  cease 
from  thought,  and  remembrance,  and  inward  question- 
ings altogether.  For  have  I  not  been  commanded  this 
journey  by  my  superiors,  so  that  in  accordance  with 
my  vow  of  obedience,  my  one  duty  at  present  is  to 
travel;  and  therefore  what  pleasure  it  chances  to  bring 
I  must  not  refuse. 

We  spent  some  hours  in  Niirnberg.  The  quaint 
rich  carvings  of  many  of  the  houses  were  beautiful. 
There  also  we  saw  Albrecht  Diirer's  paintings,  and 
heard  Hans  Sachs,  the  shoemaker  and  poet,  sing  his 
godly  German  hymns.  And  as  we  crossed  the  Bava- 
rian plains,  the  friendliness  of  the  simple  peasantry 
made  up  to  us  for  the  sameness  of  the  country. 

Near  Heidelberg  again  I  fancied  myself  once  more  in 
the  Tburingian  forest,  especially  as  we  rested  in  the  con- 
vent of  Erbach  in  the  Odenwald.  Again  the  familiar 
forests  and  green  valleys  with  their  streams  were  around 
me.  I  fear  Else  and  the  others  will  miss  the  beauty  of  the 
forest-covered  hills  around  Eisenach,  when  they  remove 
to  Wittenberg,  which  is  situated  on  a  barren,  mono- 
tonous flat.     About  this  time  they  will  be  moving! 

Brother  Martin  has  held  many  disputations  on  theo- 
logical and  philosophical  questions  in  the  University  of 
Heidelberg-,  but  I,  being  only  a  novice,  have  been 
free  to  wander  whither  I  would. 

This  evening  it  was  delightful  to  stand  in  the 
woods  of  the  Elector  Palatine's  castle,  and  from  among 
the  oaks  and  delicate  birches  rustling  about  me,  to 
look  down  on  the  hills  of  the  Odenwald  folding  over 


fritz's  story.  173 

each  other.  Far  up  among  them  I  traced  the  narrow, 
quiet  Neckar,  issuing  from  the  silent  depths  of  the 
forest;  while  on  the  other  side,  below  the  city,  it 
wound  on  through  the  plain  to  the  Ehine,  gleaming 
here  and  there  with  the  gold  of  sunset  or  the  cold  grey 
light  of  the  evening.  Beyond,  far  off,  I  could  see  the 
masts  of  ships  on  the  Ehine. 

I  scarcely  know  why,  the  river  made  me  think  of 
life,  of  mine  and  Brother  Martin's.  Already  he  has 
left  the  shadow  of  the  forests.  Who  can  say  what 
people  his  life  will  bless,  what  sea  it  will  reach,  and 
through  what  perils?  Of  this  I  feel  sure,  it  will 
matter  much  to  many  what  its  course  shall  be.  For 
me  it  is  otherwise.  My  life,  as  far  as  earth  is  con- 
cerned, seems  closed,  —  ended;  and  it  can  matter 
little  to  any,  henceforth,  through  what  regions  it  passes, 
if  only  it  reaches  the  ocean  at  last,  and  ends,  as  they 
say,  in  the  bosom  of  God.  If  only  we  could  be  sure 
that  God  guides  the  course  of  our  lives  as  he  does 
that  of  rivers !  And  yet ,  do  they  not  say  that  some 
rivers  lose  themselves  in  sand-wastes,  and  others  trickle 
meanly  to  the  sea  through  lands  they  have  desolated 
into  untenantable  marshes? 

Black  Forest,  May  14,  4610. 

Brother  Martin  and  I  are  now  fairly  on  our  pil- 
grimage alone,  walking  all  day,  begging  our  provisions 
and  our  lodgings,  which  he  sometimes  repays  by  per- 
forming a  mass  in  the  parish  church,  or  by  a  promise 
of  reciting  certain  prayers  or  celebrating  masses  on  the 
behalf  of  our  benefactors,  at  Rome. 

These  are,  indeed,  precious  days.  My  whole 
frame  seems   braced  and  revived  by  the  early  rising, 


174     CHRONICLES   OF  THE  SCHONBERG-COTTA  FAMILY. 

the  constant  movement  in  the  pure  air,  the  pressing 
forward  to  a  definite  point. 

But  more,  infinitely  more  than  this,  my  heart  seems 
reviving.  I  begin  to  have  a  hope  and  see  a  light 
which,  until  now,  I  scarcely  deemed  possible. 

To  encourage  me  in  my  perplexities  and  conflicts, 
Brother  Martin  unfolded  to  me  what  his  own  had 
been.  To  the  storm  of  doubt,  and  fear,  and  anguish 
in  that  great  heart  of  his,  my  troubles  seems  like  a 
passing  spring  shower.  Yet  to  me  they  were  tempests 
which  laid  my  heart  waste.  And  God,  Brother  Martin 
believes,  does  not  measure  his  pity  by  what  our  sor- 
rows are  in  themselves,  but  what  they  are  to  us.  Are 
we  not  all  children,  little  children,  in  his  sight? 

"I  did  not  learn  my  divinity  at  once,"  he  said, 
"but  was  constrained  by  my  temptations  to  search 
deeper  and  deeper;  for  no  man  without  trials  and 
temptations  can  attain  a  true  understanding  of  the  Holy 
Scriptures.  St.  Paul  had  a  devil  that  beat  him  with 
fists,  and  with  temptations  drove  him  diligently  to 
study  the  Holy  Scriptures.  Temptations  hunted  me 
into  the  Bible,  wherein  I  sedulously  read;  and  thereby, 
God  be  praised,  at  length  attained  a  true  understanding 
of  it." 

He  then  related  to  me  what  some  of  these  tempta- 
tions were;  —  the  bitter  disappointment  it  was  to  him 
to  find  that  the  cowl,  and  even  the  vows  and  the 
priestly  consecration,  made  no  change  in  his  heart; 
that  Satan  was  as  near  him  in  the  cloister  as  outside, 
and  he  no  stronger  to  cope  with  him.  He  told  me  of 
his  endeavours  to  keep  every  minute  rule  of  the  order, 
and  how  the  slightest  deviation  weighed  on  his  con- 
science.    It  seems  to  have  been  like  trying  to  restrain 


fritz's  story.  175 

a  fire  by  a  fence  of  willows,  or  to  guide  a  mountain 
torrent  in  artificial  windings  through  a  flower-garden, 
to  bind  his  fervent  nature  by  these  vexatious  rules. 
He  was  continually  becoming  absorbed  in  some  thought 
or  study,  and  forgetting  all  the  rules,  and  then  pain- 
fully he  would  turn  back  and  retrace  his  steps;  some- 
times spending  weeks  in  absorbing  study,  and  then 
remembering  he  had  neglected  his  canonical  hours,  and 
depriving  himself  of  sleep  for  nights  to  make  up  the 
missing  prayers. 

He  fasted,  disciplined  himself,  humbled  himself  to 
perform  the  meanest  offices  for  the  meanest  brother; 
forcibly  kept  sleep  from  his  eyes  wearied  with  study, 
and  his  mind  worn  out  with  conflict,  until  every  now 
and  then  Nature  avenged  herself  by  laying  him  uncon- 
scious on  the  floor  of  his  cell,  or  disabling  him  by  a 
fit  of  illness. 

But  all  in  vain;  his  temptations  seemed  to  grow 
stronger,  his  strength  less.  Love  to  God  he  could  not 
feel  at  all;  but  in  his  secret  soul  the  bitterest  question- 
ing of  God,  who  seemed  to  torment  him  at  once  by 
the  law  and  the  gospel.  He  thought  of  Christ  as  the 
severest  judge,  because  the  most  righteous;  and  the 
very  phrase,  "the  righteousness  of  God,"  was  torture 
to  him. 

Not  that  this  state  of  distress  was  continual  with 
him.  At  times  he  gloried  in  his  obedience,  and  felt 
that  he  earned  rewards  from  God  by  performing  the 
sacrifice  of  the  mass,  not  only  for  himself  but  for 
others.  At  times,  also,  in  his  circuits,  after  his  con- 
secration, to  say  mass  in  the  villages  around  Erfurt, 
he  would  feel  his  spirits  lightened  by  the  variety  of 
the  scenes  he  witnessed,  and  would  be  greatly  amused 


176     CHRONICLES   OF  THE   SCIIONBERG-COTTA  FAMILY. 

at  the  ridiculous  mistakes  of  the  village  choirs;  for 
instance,  their  chanting  the  "Kyrie"  to  the  music  of 
the  "Gloria." 

Then,  at  other  times,  his  limbs  would  totter  with 
terror  when  he  offered  the  holy  sacrifice,  at  the  thought 
that  he,  the  sacrificing  priest,  yet  the  poor,  sinful 
Brother  Martin,  actually  stood  before  God  "without  a 
Mediator." 

At  his  first  mass  he  had  difficulty  in  restraining 
himself  from  flying  from  the  altar  —  so  great  was  his 
awe  and  the  sense  of  his  unworthiness.  Had  he  done 
so,  he  would  have  been  excommunicated. 

Again,  there  were  days  when  he  performed  the 
services  with  some  satisfaction,  and  would  conclude 
with  saying,  "0  Lord  Jesus,  I  come  to  thee,  and 
entreat  thee  to  be  pleased  with  whatsoever  I  do  and 
suffer  in  my  order;  and  I  pray  thee  that  these  burdens 
and  this  straitness  of  my  rule  and  religion  may  be  a 
full  satisfaction  for  all  my  sins." 

Yet  then  again,  the  dread  would  come  that  perhaps 
he  had  inadvertently  omitted  some  word  in  the  service, 
such  as  "enim"  or  "seternum,"  or  neglected  some  pre- 
scribed genuflexion,  or  even  a  signing  of  the  cross; 
and  that  thus,  instead  of  offering  to  God  an  acceptable 
sacrifice  in  the  mass,  he  had  committed  a  grievous 
sin. 

From  such  terrors  of  conscience  he  fled  for  refuge 
to  some  of  his  twenty-one  patron  saints,  or  oftener  to 
Mary,  seeking  to  touch  her  womanly  heart,  that  she 
might  appease  her  Son.  He  hoped  that  by  invoking 
three  saints  daily,  and  by  letting  his  body  waste  away 
with  fastings  and  watchings,  he  should  satisfy  the  law, 
and  shield  his  conscience  against  the  goad  of  the  driver. 


Fritz's  story.  177 

But  it  all  availed  him  nothing.  The  further  he  went 
on  in  this  way,  the  more  he  was  terrified. 

And  then  he  related  to  me  how  the  light  broke 
upon  his  heart;  slowly,  intermittently,  indeed;  yet  it 
has  dawned  on  him.  His  day  may  often  be  dark  and 
tempestuous;  but  it  is  day,  and  not  night. 

Dr.  Staupitz  was  the  first  who  brought  him  any 
comfort.  The  Vicar- General  received  his  confession 
not  long  after  he  entered  the  cloister,  and  from  that 
time  won  his  confidence,  and  took  the  warmest  interest 
in  him.  Brother  Martin  frequently  wrote  to  him;  and 
once  he  used  the  words,  in  reference  to  some  neglect 
of  the  rules  which  troubled  his  conscience,  "  Oh,  my  sins, 
my  sins!"  Dr.  Staupitz  replied,  "You  would  be  without 
sin,  and  yet  you  have  no  proper  sins.  Christ  forgives 
true  sins,  such  as  parricide,  blasphemy,  contempt  of 
God,  adultery,  and  sins  like  these.  These  are  sins 
indeed.  You  must  have  a  register  in  which  stand 
veritable  sins,  if  Christ  is  to  help  you.  You  would  be 
a  painted  sinner,  and  have  a  painted  Christ  as  a  Saviour. 
You  must  make  up  your  mind  that  Christ  is  a  real 
Saviour,  and  you  a  real  sinner." 

These  words  brought  some  light  to  Brother  Martin, 
but  the  darkness  came  back  again  and  again;  and 
tenderly  did  Dr.  Staupitz  sympathize  with  him  and 
rouse  him  —  Dr.  Staupitz,  and  that  dear  aged  con- 
fessor, who  ministered  also  so  lovingly  to  me.  Brother 
Martin's  great  terror  was  the  thought  of  the  righteous- 
ness of  God,  by  which  he  had  been  taught  to  under- 
stand his  inflexible  severity  in  executing  judgment  on 
sinners. 

Dr.  Staupitz  and  the  confessor  explained  to  him 
that  the  righteousness  of  God  is  not  against  the  sinner 

Schuiibog-Colta  Family.   I.  12 


178     CHRONICLES  OF  THE    SCHONBEKG-COTTA  FAMILY. 

who  believes  in  the  Lord  Jesus  Christ,  but  for  him  — 
not  against  us  to  condemn,  but  for  us  to  justify. 

He  began  to  study  the  Bible  with  a  new  zest.  He 
had  had  the  greatest  longing  to  understand  rightly  the 
Epistle  of  St.  Paul  to  the  Romans,  but  was  always 
stopped  by  the  word  "righteousness"  in  the  first  chapter 
and  seventeenth  verse,  where  Paul  says  the  righteous- 
ness of  God  is  revealed  by  the  gospel.  "I  felt  very 
angry,"  he  said,  "at  the  term,  'righteousness  of  God;' 
for,  after  the  manner  of  all  the  teachers,  I  was  taught 
to  understand  it  in  a  philosophic  sense,  of  that  righte- 
ousness by  which  God  is  just  and  punisheth  the  guilty. 
Though  I  had  lived  without  reproach,  I  felt  myself  to 
be  a  great  sinner  before  God,  and  was  of  a  very  quick 
conscience,  and  had  not  confidence  in  a  reconciliation 
with  God  to  be  produced  by  any  work  or  satisfaction 
or  merit  of  my  own.  For  this  cause  I  had  in  me  no 
love  of  a  righteous  and  angry  God,  but  secretly  hated 
him,  and  thought  within  myself,  Is  it  not  enough  that 
God  has  condemned  us  to  everlasting  death  by  Adam's 
sin,  and  that  we  must  suffer  so  much  trouble  and 
misery  in  this  life?  Over  and  above  the  terror  and 
threatening  of  the  law,  must  he  needs  increase  by  the 
gospel  our  misery  and  anguish,  and,  by  the  preaching 
of  the  same,  thunder  against  us  his  justice  and  fierce 
wrath?  My  confused  conscience  ofttimes  did  cast  me 
into  fits  of  anger,  and  I  sought  day  and  night  to  make 
out  the  meaning  of  Paul;  and  at  last  I  came  to  appre- 
hend it  thus:  Through  the  gospel  is  revealed  the 
righteousness  which  availeth  with  God  —  a  righteous- 
ness by  which  God,  in  his  mercy  and  compassion,  justi- 
fieth  us;  as  it  is  written,  ''The  just  shall  live  by  faith* 
Straightway  I  felt  as  if  I  were  born  anew;  it  was  as 


fritz's  story.  179 

if  I  had  found  the  door  of  Paradise  thrown  wide  open. 
Now  I  saw  the  Scriptures  altogether  in  a  new  light  — 
ran  through  their  whole  contents  as  far  as  my  memory- 
would  serve,  and  compared  them  —  and  found  that 
this  righteousness  was  the  more  surely  that  by  which 
he  makes  us  righteous,  because  everything  agreed 
thereunto  so  well.  The  expression,  'the  righteousness 
of  God,'  which  I  so  much  hated  before,  became  now 
dear  and  precious  —  my  darling  and  most  comforting 
word.  That  passage  of  Paul  was  to  me  the  true  door 
of  Paradise." 

Brother  Martin  also  told  me  of  the  peace  the  words, 
"I  believe  in  the  forgiveness  of  sins,"  brought  to  him, 
as  the  aged  confessor  had  previously  narrated  to  me; 
for,  he  said,  the  devil  often  plucked  him  back,  and, 
taking  the  very  form  of  Christ,  sought  to  terrify  him 
again  with  his  sins. 

As  I  listened  to  him,  the  conviction  came  on  me 
that  he  had  ideed  drunk  of  the  well-spring  of  ever- 
lasting life,  and  it  seemed  almost  within  my  own  reach; 
but  I  said  — 

"Brother  Martin,  your  sins  were  mere  transgres- 
sions of  human  rules,  but  mine  are  different."  And  I 
told  him  how  I  had  resisted  my  vocation.     He  replied  — ■ 

"The  devil  gives  heaven  to  people  before  they  sin; 
but  after  they  sin,  brings  their  consciences  into  despair. 
Christ  deals  quite  in  the  contrary  way,  for  he  gives 
heaven  after  sins  committed,  and  makes  troubled  con- 
sciences joyful." 

Then  we  fell  into  a  long  silence,  and  from  time 
to  time,  as  I  looked  at  the  calm  which  reigned  on  his 
rugged  and  massive  brow,  and  felt  the  deep  light  in 
his  dark  eyes,  the  conviction  gathered  strength  — 

12* 


180     CHRONICLES   OP   THE   SCHONBERGCOTTA  FAMILY. 

"  This  solid  rock  on  which  that  tempest-tossed  spirit 
rests  is  Truth!" 

His  lips  moved  now  and  then,  as  if  in  prayer,  and 
his  eyes  were  lifted  up  from  time  to  time  to  heaven,  as 
if  his  thoughts  found  a  home  there. 

After  this  silence,  he  spoke  again,  and  said  — - 

"The  gospel  speaks  nothing  of  our  works,  or  of 
the  works  of  the  law,  but  of  the  inestimable  mercy  and 
love  of  God  towards  most  wretched  and  miserable 
sinners.  Our  most  merciful  Father,  seeing  us  over- 
whelmed and  oppressed  with  the  curse  of  the  law ,  and 
so  to  be  holden  under  the  same  that  we  could  never 
be  delivered  from  it  by  our  own  power,  sent  his  only 
Son  into  the  world,  and  laid  upon  him  the  sins  of  all 
men,  saying,  'Be  thou  Peter,  that  denier-,  Paul,  that 
persecutor,  blasphemer,  and  cruel  oppressor;  David, 
that  adulterer;  that  sinner  that  did  eat  the  apple  in 
Paradise;  that  thief  that  hanged  upon  the  cross;  and 
briefly,  be  thou  the  person  that  hath  committed  the 
sins  of  all  men,  and  pay  and  satisfy  for  them.'  For 
God  trifleth  not  with  us,  but  speaketh  earnestly  and  of 
great  love,  that  Christ  is  the  Lamb  of  God  who  beareth 
the  sins  of  us  all.  He  is  just,  and  the  justifier  of  him 
that  believeth  in  Jesus." 

I  could  answer  nothing  to  this,  but  walked  along 
pondering  these  words.  Neither  did  he  say  any  more 
at  that  time. 

The  sun  was  sinking  low,  and  the  long  shadows  of 
the  pine-trunks  were  thrown  athwart  our  green  forest- 
path,  so  that  we  were  glad  to  find  a  charcoal-burner's 
hut,  and  to  take  shelter  for  the  night  beside  his  fires. 

But  that  night   I   could  not  sleep;   and  when   all 


fritz's  story.  181 

were  sleeping  around  rne,  I  rose  and  went  out  into  the 
forest. 

Brother  Martin  is  not  a  man  to  parade  his  inmost 
conflicts  before  the  eyes  of  others,  to  call  forth  their 
sympathy  or  their  idle  wonder.  He  has  suffered  too 
deeply  and  too  recently  for  that.  It  is  not  lightly  that 
he  has  unlocked  the  dungeons  and  torture-chambers  of 
his  past  life  for  me.  It  is  as  a  fellow-sufferer  and  a 
fellow-soldier,  to  show  me  how  I  also  may  escape  and 
overcome. 

It  is  surely  because  he  is  to  be  a  hero  and  a  leader 
of  men  that  God  has  caused  him  to  tread  these  bitter 
ways  alone. 

A  new  meaning  dawns  on  old  words  for  me.  There 
is  nothing  new  in  what  he  says-,  but  it  seems  new  to 
me,  as  if  God  had  spoken  it  first  to-day,  and  all  things 
seem  made  new  in  its  light. 

God,  then,  is  more  earnest  for  me  to  be  saved  than 
I  am  to  be  saved! 

He  so  loved  the  world,  that  he  gave  his  Son. 

He  loved  not  saints,  not  penitents,  not  the  religious, 
not  those  who  love  him;  but  "the  world"  secular  men, 
profane  men,  hardened  rebels,  hopeless  wanderers  and 
sinners! 

He  gave  not  a  mere  promise,  not  an  angel  to  teach 
us,  not  a  world  to  ransom  us,  but  his  Son  —  his  Only- 
begotten! 

So  much  did  God  love  the  world,  sinners,  me!  I 
believe  this;  I  must  believe  it;  I  believe  on  him  who 
says  it.     How  can  I  then  do  otherwise  than  rejoice? 

Two  glorious  visions  rise  before  me  and  begin  to 
fill  the  world  and  all  my  heart  with  joy. 

I  see  the  Holiest,   the  Perfect,   the  Son  made  the 


182     CHRONICLES  OF  THE   SCHONBERG-COTTA  FAMILY. 

victim,  tlie  lamb,  the  curse,  willingly  yielding  himself 
up  to  death  on  the  cross  for  me. 

I  see  the  Father  —  inflexible  in  justice  yet  de- 
lighting in  mercy  —  accepting  him,  the  spotless  Lamb 
■whom  he  had  given;  raising  him  from  the  dead;  set- 
ting him  on  his  right  hand.  Just,  beyond  all  my 
terrified  conscience  could  picture  him ,  he  justifies  me 
the  sinner. 

Hating  sin  as  love  must  abhor  selfishness,  and  life 
death,  and  purity  corruption,  he  loves  me  —  the  selfish, 
the  corrupt,  the  dead  in  sins.  He  gives  his  Son,  the 
Only-begotten,  for  me;  he  accepts  his  Son,  the  spotless 
Lamb,  for  me;  he  forgives  me;  he  acquits  me;  he  will 
make  me  pure. 

The  thought  overpowered  me.  I  knelt  among  the 
pines  and  spoke  to  Him  who  hears  when  we  have  no 
words,  for  words  failed  me  altogether  then. 

Munich,  May  18. 

All  the  next  day  and  the  next  that  joy  lasted. 
Every  twig,  and  bird,  and  dew-drop  spoke  in  parables 
to  me;  sang  to  me  the  parable  of  the  son  who  had  re- 
turned from  the  far  country,  and  as  he  went  towards 
his  father's  house  prepared  his  confession;  but  never 
finished  the  journey,  for  the  father  met  him  when  he 
was  yet  a  great  way  off;  and  never  finished  the  con- 
fession, for  the  father  stopped  his  self-reproaches  with 
embraces. 

And  on  the  father's  heart  what  child  could  say, 
"Make  me  as  one  of  thy  hired  servants?" 

I  saw  His  love  shining  in  every  dew-drop  on  the 
grassy  forest  glades;  I  heard  it  in  the  song  of  every 
bird;  I  felt  it  in  every  pulse. 


fritz's  story.  183 

I  do  not  know  that  we  spoke  much  during  those 
days,  Brother  Martin  and  I. 

I  have  known  something  of  love-,  hut  I  have  never 
felt  a  love  that  so  fills,  overwhelms,  satisfies,  as  this 
love  of  God.  And  when  first  it  is  "thou  and  I"  be- 
tween God  and  the  soul,  for  a  time,  at  least,  the  heart 
has  little  room  for  other  fellowship. 

But  then  came  doubts  and  questionings.  Whence 
came  they?   Brother  Martin  said  from  Satan. 

"The  devil  is  a  wretched,  unhappy  spirit,"  said  he, 
"and  he  loves  to  make  us  wretched." 

One  thing  that  began  to  trouble  me  was,  whether 
I  had  the  right  kind  of  faith.  Old  definitions  of  faith 
recurred  to  me,  by  which  faith  is  said  to  be  nothing 
unless  it  is  informed  with  charity  and  developed  into 
good  works,  so  that  when  it  saith  we  are  justified  by 
faith,  the  part  is  taken  for  the  whole  —  and  it  means 
by  faith,  also  hope,  charity,  all  the  graces,  and  all  good 
works. 

But  Brother  Martin  declared  it  meaneth  simply  be- 
lieving.    He  said,  — 

"Faith  is  an  almighty  thing,  for  it  giveth  glory  to 
God,  which  is  the  highest  service  that  can  be  given  to 
him.  Now,  to  give  glory  to  God,  is  to  believe  in  him; 
to  count  him  true,  wise,  righteous,  merciful,  almighty. 
The  chiefest  thing  God  requireth  of  man  is,  that  he 
giveth  unto  him  his  glory  and  divinity;  that  is  to  say, 
that  he  taketh  him  not  for  an  idol,  but  for  God;  who 
regardeth  him,  heareth  him,  showeth  mercy  unto  him, 
and  helpeth  him.  For  faith  saith  thus,  'I  believe  thee, 
O  God,  when  thou  speakest.'" 

But  our  great  wisdom,   he  says,   is  to  look  away 


184     CHRONICLES   OP  THE   SCHONBERQ-COTTA   FAMILY. 

from  all  these  questionings,  —  from  our  sins,  our  works, 
ourselves,  to  Christ,  who  is  our  righteousness,  our  Sa- 
viour, our  all. 

Then  at  times  other  things  perplex  me.  If  faith 
is  so  simple,  and  salvation  so  free,  why  all  those  orders, 
rules,  pilgrimages,  penances? 

And  to  these  perplexities  we  can  neither  of  us  find 
any  answer.  But  we  must  be  obedient  to  the  Church. 
What  we  cannot  understand  we  must  receive  and  obey. 
This  is  a  monk's  duty,  at  least. 

Then  at  times  another  temptation  comes  on  me. 
"If  thou  hadst  known  of  this  before,"  a  voice  says 
deep  in  my  heart,  "thou  couldst  have  served  God  joy- 
fully in  thy  home,  instead  of  painfully  in  the  cloister; 
couldst  have  helped  thy  parents  and  Else,  and  spoken 
with  Eva  on  these  things,  which  her  devout  and  simple 
heart  has  doubtless  received  already."  But,  alas!  I 
know  too  well  what  tempter  ventures  to  suggest  that 
name  to  me,  and  I  say,  "Whatever  might  have  been, 
malicious  spirit,  now  I  am  a  religious,  a  devoted  man, 
to  whom  it  is  perdition  to  draw  back!" 

Yet,  in  a  sense,  I  seem  less  separated  from  my  be- 
loved ones  during  these  past  days. 

There  is  a  brotherhood,  there  is  a  family,  more 
permanent  than  the  home  at  Eisenach,  or  even  the 
Order  of  St.  Augustine,  in  which  we  may  be  united 
still.  There  is  a  home  in  which,  perhaps,  we  may  yet 
be  one  household  again. 

And  meantime,  God  may  have  some  little  useful 
work  for  me  to  do  here,  which  in  his  presence  may 
make  life  pass  as  quickly  as  this  my  pilgrimage  to 
Rome  in  Brother  Martin's  company. 


PKITZ'S   STORY.  185 

Benedictine  Monastery  in  Lombabdy. 

God  has  given  us  during  these  last  days  to  see,  as 
I  verily  helieve,  some  glimpses  into  Eden.  The  moun- 
tains with  snowy  summits,  like  the  white  steps  of  His 
throne;  the  rivers  which  flow  from  them  and  enrich  the 
land;  the  crystal  seas,  like  glass  mingled  with  fire, 
when  the  reflected  snow-peaks  burn  in  the  lakes  at 
dawn  or  sunset;  and  then  this  Lombard  plain,  watered 
with  rivers  which  make  its  harvests  gleam  like  gold; 
this  garner  of  God,  where  the  elms  or  chestnuts  grow 
among  the  golden  maize,  and  the  vines  festoon  the 
trees,  so  that  all  the  land  seems  garlanded  for  a  per- 
petual holy  day.  We  came  through  the  Tyrol  by 
Fiisseh,  and  then  struck  across  by  the  mountains  and 
the  lakes  to  Milan. 

Now  we  are  entertained  like  princes  in  this  rich 
Benedictine  abbey.  Its  annual  income  is  36,000  florins. 
"Of  eating  and  feasting,"  as  Brother  Martin  says, 
"there  is  no  lack;"  for  12,000  florins  are  consumed 
on  guests,  and  as  large  a  sum  on  building.  The  re- 
sidue goeth  to  the  convent  and  the  brethren. 

They  have  received  us  poor  German  monks  with 
much  honour,  as  a  deputation  from  the  great  Augus- 
tinian  Order  to  the  Pope. 

The  manners  of  these  southern  people  are  very 
gentle  and  courteous;  but  they  are  lighter  in  their 
treatment  of  sacred  things  than  we  could  wish. 

The  splendour  of  the  furniture  and  dress  amazes 
us;  it  is  difficult  to  reconcile  it  with  the  vows  of  poverty 
and  renunciation  of  the  world.  But  I  suppose  they 
regard  the  vow  of  poverty  as  binding  not  on  the  com- 
munity, but  only  on  the  individual  monk.  It  must, 
however,   at  the  best,   be  hard  to  live  a  severe  and 


186     CHRONICLES   OF  THE  SCHONBERG  COTTA  FAMILY. 

ascetic  life  amidst  such  luxuries.  Many,  no  doubt,  do 
not  try. 

The  tables  are  supplied  with  the  most  costly  and 
delicate  viands-,  the  walls  are  tapestried;  the  dresses 
are  of  fine  silk;  the  floors  are  inlaid  with  rich  marbles. 

Poor,  poor  splendours,  as  substitutes  for  the  humblest 
home  ! 

Bologna,  June. 

We  did  not  remain  long  in  the  Benedictine  monas- 
tery, for  this  reason:  Brother  Martin,  I  could  see,  had 
been  much  perplexed  by  their  luxurious  living;  but  as 
a  guest,  had,  I  suppose,  scarcely  felt  at  liberty  to  re- 
monstrate, until  Friday  came,  when,  to  our  amazement, 
the  table  was  covered  with  meats  and  fruits,  and  all 
kinds  of  viands,  as  on  any  other  day,  regardless  not 
only  of  the  rules  of  the  Order,  but  of  the  common  laws 
of  the  whole  Church. 

He  would  touch  none  of  these  dainties;  but  not 
content  with  this  silent  protest,  he  boldly  said  before 
the  whole  company,  "The  Church  and  the  Pope  forbid 
such  things!" 

We  had  then  an  opportunity  of  seeing  into  what  the 
smoothness  of  these  Italian  manners  can  change  when 
ruffled. 

The  whole  brotherhood  burst  into  a  storm  of  indig- 
nation. Their  dark  eyes  flashed ,  their  white  teeth 
gleamed  with  scornful  and  angry  laughter,  and  their 
voices  rose  in  a  tempest  of  vehement  words,  many  of 
which  were  unintelligible  to  us. 

"Intruders,"  "barbarians,"  "coarse  and  ignorant 
Germans,"  and  other  biting  epithets,  however,  we  could 
too  well  understand. 

Brother  Martin  stood  like  a  rock  amidst  the  torrent, 


fritz's  story.  187 

and  threatened  to  make  their  luxury  and  disorder  known 
at  Rome. 

When  the  assemhly  broke  up,  we  noticed  the  bre- 
thren gather  apart  in  small  groups,  and  cast  scowling 
glances  at  us  when  we  chanced  to  pass  near. 

That  evening  the  porter  of  the  monastery  came  to 
us  privately,  and  warned  us  that  this  convent  was  no 
longer  a  safe  resting-place  for  us. 

Whether  this  was  a  friendly  warning,  or  merely  a 
device  of  the  brethren  to  get  rid  of  troublesome  guests, 
I  know  not;  but  we  had  no  wish  to  linger,  and  before 
the  next  day  dawned  we  crept  in  the  darkness  out  of  a 
side  gate  into  a  boat,  which  we  found  on  the  river 
which  flows  beneath  the  walls,  and  escaped. 

It  was  delightful  to-day  winding  along  the  side  of 
a  hill,  near  Bologna,  for  miles,  under  the  flickering 
shade  of  trellises  covered  with  vines.  But  Brother 
Martin,  I  thought,  looked  ill  and  weary. 


Thank  God,  Brother  Martin  is  reviving  again.  He 
has  been  on  the  very  borders  of  the  grave. 

Whether  it  was  the  scorching  heat  through  which 
we  have  been  travelling,  or  the  malaria,  which  affected 
lis  with  catarrh  one  night  when  we  slept  with  our  win- 
dows open,  or  whether  the  angry  monks  in  the  Bene- 
dictine Abbey  mixed  some  poison  with  our  food,  I  know 
not-,  but  we  had  scarcely  reached  this  place  when  he  be- 
came seriously  ill. 

As  I  watched  beside  him  I  learned  something  of  the 
anguish  he  passed  through  at  our  convent  at  Erfurt. 
The  remembrance  of  his  sins  and  the  terrors  of  God's 
judgment  rushed  on  his  mind,   weakened  by  suffering. 


188     CHRONICLES  OF  THE  SCHONBERG-COTTA  FAMILY. 

At  times  he  recognised  that  it  was  the  hand  of  the  evil 
one  which  was  keeping  him  down.  "The  devil,"  he 
would  say,  "is  the  accuser  of  the  brethren,  not  Christ. 
Thou,  Lord  Jesus,  art  my  forgiving  Saviour!"  And 
then  he  would  rise  above  the  floods.  Again  his  mind 
would  bewilder  itself  with  the  unfathomable  —  the 
origin  of  evil,  the  relation  of  our  free  will  to  God's  al- 
mighty will. 

Then  I  ventured  to  recall  to  him  the  words  of  Dr. 
Staupitz  he  had  repeated  to  me:  "Behold  the  wounds 
of  Jesus  Christ,  and  then  thou  shalt  see  the  counsel  of 
God  clearly  shining  forth.  We  cannot  comprehend 
God  out  of  Jesus  Christ.  In  Christ  you  will  find  what 
God  is,  and  what  he  requires.  You  will  find  him 
nowhere  else,  whether  in  heaven  or  on  earth." 

It  was  strange  to  find  myself,  untried  recruit  that 
I  am,  thus  attempting  to  give  refreshment  to  such  a 
veteran  and  victor  as  Brother  Martin-,  but  when  the 
strongest  are  brought  into  single  combats  such  as  these, 
which  must  be  single,  a  feeble  hand  may  bring  a  draught 
of  cold  water  to  revive  the  hero  between  the  pauses  of 
the  fight. 

The  victory,  however,  can  only  be  won  by  the 
combatant  himself;  and  at  length  Brother  Martin  fought 
his  way  through  once  more,  and  as  so  often  happens, 
just  when  the  fight  seemed  hottest.  It  was  with  an  old 
weapon  he  overcame  —  "  The  just  shall  live  by  faith." 

Once  more  the  words  which  have  helped  him  so 
often,  which  so  frequently  he  has  repeated  on  this  journey, 
came  with  power  to  his  mind.  Again  he  looked  to  the 
crucified  Saviour;  again  he  believed  in  Him  triumphant 
and  ready  to  forgive  on  the  throne  of  grace;  and  again 
his  spirit  was  in  the  light. 


Fritz's  story.  189 

His  strength  also  soon  began  to  return;  and  in  a 
few  days  we  are  to  be  in  Rome. 

Rome. 

The  pilgrimage  is  over.  The  holy  city  is  at  length 
reached. 

Across  burning  plains,  under  trellised  vine-walks 
on  the  hill-sides,  over  wild,  craggy  mountains,  through 
valleys  green  with  chestnuts,  and  olives,  and  thickets 
of  myrtle,  and  fragrant  with  lavender  and  cistus,  we 
walked,  until  at  last  the  sacred  towers  and  domes  burst 
on  our  sight,  across  a  reach  of  the  Campagna  —  the 
city  where  St.  Paul  and  St.  Peter  were  martyred  —  the 
metropolis  of  the  kingdom  of  God. 

The  moment  we  came  in  sight  of  the  city  Brother 
Martin  prostrated  himself  on  the  earth,  and,  lifting  up 
his  hands  to  heaven,  exclaimed  — 

"Hail,  sacred  Rome!  thrice  sacred  for  the  blood  of 
the  martyrs  here  shed." 

And  now  we  are  within  the  sacred  walls,  lodged  in 
the  Augustinian  monastery,  near  to  the  northern  gate, 
through  which  we  entered,  called  by  the  Romans  the 
"Porta  del  Popolo." 

Already  Brother  Martin  has  celebrated  a  mass  in 
the  convent  church. 

And  to-morrow  we  may  kneel  where  apostles  and 
martyrs  stood! 

"We  may  perhaps  even  see  the  holy  father  himself! 

Are  we  indeed  nearer  heaven  here? 

It  seems  to  me  as  if  I  felt  God  nearer  that  night  in 
the  Black  Forest. 

There  is  so  much  tumult,  and  movement,  and  pomp 
around  us  in  the  great  city. 

When,  however,  I  feel  it  more  familiar  and  home- 
like, perhaps  it  will  seem  more  heaven-like. 


190     CHRONICLES   OF   TUB  SCHONBERG-COTTA  FAMILY. 


IX. 

ELEs's  STORY. 

Eisenach,  April. 

The  last  words  I  shall  write  in  our  dear  old 
lumber-room,  Fritz's  and  mine!  I  have  little  to  regret 
in  it  now,  however,  that  our  twilight  talks  are  over  for 
ever.  We  leave  early  to-morrow  morning  for  Witten- 
berg. It  is  strange  to  look  out  into  the  old  street,  and 
think  how  all  will  look  exactly  the  same  there  to- 
morrow evening,  —  the  monks  slowly  pacing  along  in 
pairs,  the  boys  rushing  out  of  school,  as  they  are  now, 
the  maid-servants  standing  at  the  doors  with  the  baby 
in  their  arms,  or  wringing  their  mops,  —  and  we  gone. 
How  small  a  blank  people  seem  to  make  when  they 
are  gone,  however  large  the  space  they  seemed  to  fill 
when  they  were  present,  —  except,  indeed,  to  two  or 
three  hearts!  I  see  this  with  Fritz.  It  seemed  to  me 
our  little  world  must  fall  when  he,  its  chief  pillar,  was 
withdrawn.  Yet  now  everything  seems  to  go  on  the 
same  as  before  he  became  a  monk,  —  except,  indeed, 
with  the  mother  and  Eva  and  me. 

The  mother  seems  more  and  more  like  a  shadow 
gliding  in  and  out  among  us.  Tenderly,  indeed,  she 
takes  on  her  all  she  can  of  our  family  cares;  but  to 
family  joys  she  seems  spiritless  and  dead.  Since  she 
told  me  of  the  inclination  she  thinks  she  neglected  in 
her  youth  towards  the  cloister,  I  understand  her  better, 
—  the  trembling  fear  with  which  she  receives  any 
good  thing,  and  the  hopeless  submission  with  which 
she  bows  to  every  trouble,  as  to  the  blows  of  a  rod 


ELSE'S   STORY.  191 

always  suspended  over  her,  and  only  occasionally 
mercifully  withheld  from  striking. 

In  the  loss  of  Fritz  the  blow  has  fallen  exactly 
where  she  would  feel  it  most  keenly.  She  had,  I  feel 
sure,  planned  another  life  for  him.  I  see  it  in  the 
peculiar  tenderness  of  the  tie  which  binds  her  to  Eva. 
She  said  to  me  to-day,  as  we  were  packing  up  some  of 
Fritz's  books,  "The  sacrifice  I  was  too  selfish  to  make 
myself  my  son  has  made  for  me.  0  Else ,  my  child, 
give  at  once,  at  once,  whatever  God  demands  of  you. 
What  he  demands  must  be  given  at  last;  and  if  only 
wrung  out  from  us  at  last,  God  only  knows  with  what 
fearful  interest  the  debt  may  have  to  be  paid." 

The  words  weigh  on  me  like  a  curse.  I  cannot 
help  feeling  sometimes,  as  I  know  she  feels  always, 
that  the  family  is  under  some  fatal  spell. 

But  oh,  how  terrible  the  thought  is  that  this  is  the 
way  God  exacts  retribution!  —  a  creditor,  exacting  to 
the  last  farthing  for  the  most  trifling  transgression;  and 
if  payment  is  delayed,  taking  life  or  limb,  or  what  is 
dearer,  in  exchange.  I  cannot  bear  to  think  of  it.  For 
if  my  mother  is  thus  visited  for  a  mistake,  for  neglect- 
ing a  doubtful  vocation,  my  pious,  sweet  mother,  what 
hope  is  there  for  me,  who  scarcely  pass  a  day  without 
having  to  repent  of  saying  some  sharp  word  to  those 
boys  (who  certainly  are  often  very  provoking),  or  doing 
what  I  ought  not,  or  omitting  some  religious  duty,  or 
at  least  without  envying  some  one  who  is  richer,  or 
inwardly  murmuring  at  our  lot,  —  even  sometimes 
thinking  bitter  thoughts  of  our  father  and  his  dis- 
coveries ! 


Our  dear  father  has  at  last  arranged  and  fitted  in 
all  his  treasures,    and    is    the    only  one,    except  the 


192     CHRONICLES  OF  THE  SCHONBERG-COTTA  FAMILY. 

children,  who  seems  thoroughly  pleased  at  the  thought 
of  our  emigration.  All  day  he  has  been  packing,  and 
unpacking,  and  repacking  his  machines  into  some 
specially  safe  corners  of  the  great  waggon  which  cousin 
Conrad  Cotta  has  lent  us  for  our  journey. 

Eva,  on  the  other  hand,  seems  to  belong  to  this 
world  as  little  as  the  mother.  Not  that  she  looks  de- 
pressed or  hopeless.  Her  face  often  perfectly  beams 
with  peace-,  but  it  seems  entirely  independent  of  every- 
thing here,  and  is  neither  ruffled  by  the  difficulties  we 
encounter,  nor  enhanced  when  anything  goes  a  little 
better.  I  must  confess  it  rather  provokes  me,  almost 
as  much  as  the  boys  do.  I  have  serious  fears  that  one 
day  she  will  leave  us,  like  Fritz,  and  take  refuge  in  a 
convent.  And  yet  I  am  sure  I  have  not  a  fault  to 
find  with  her.  I  suppose  that  is  exactly  what  our 
grandmother  and  I  feel  so  provoking.  Lately  she  has 
abandoned  all  her  Latin  books  for  a  German  book 
entitled  "Theologia  Teutsch,"  or  "Theologia  Ger- 
manica,"  which  Fritz  sent  us  before  he  left  the  Erfurt 
convent  on  his  pilgrimage  to  Rome.  This  book  seems 
to  make  Eva  very  happy;  but  as  to  me,  it  appears  to 
me  more  unintelligible  than  Latin.  Although  it  is 
quite  different  from  all  the  other  religious  books  I  ever 
read,  it  does  not  suit  me  any  better.  Indeed,  it  seems 
as  if  I  never  should  find  the  kind  of  religion  that 
would  suit  me.  It  all  seems  so  sublime  and  vague, 
and  so  far  out  of  my  reach;  —  only  fit  for  people  who 
have  time  to  climb  the  heights;  whilst  my  path  seems 
to  lie  in  the  valleys,  and  among  the  streets,  and  amidst 
all  kinds  of  little  every-day  secular  duties  and  cares, 
which  religion  is  too  lofty  to  notice. 

I  can  only  hope  that  some  day  at  the  end  of  my 


ELS^S  STORY.  193 

life  God  will  graciously  give  me  a  little  leisure  to  be 
religious  and  to  prepare  to  meet  him,  or  that  Eva's  and 
Fritz's  prayers  and  merits  will  avail  for  me. 

Wittenberg,  May  -/MO. 

We  are  beginning  to  get  settled  into  our  new  home, 
which  is  in  the  street  near  the  University  buildings. 
Martin  Luther,  or  Brother  Martin,  has  a  great  name 
here.  They  say  his  lectures  are  more  popular  than 
any  one's.  And  he  also  frequently  preaches  in  the 
city  church.  Our  grandmother  is  not  pleased  with  the 
change.  She  calls  the  town  a  wretched  mud  village, 
and  wonders  what  can  have  induced  the  Electors  of 
Saxony  to  fix  their  residence  and  found  a  university 
in  such  a  sandy  desert  as  this.  She  supposes  it  is 
very  much  like  the  deserts  of  Arabia. 

But  Christopher  and  I  think  differently.  There  are 
several  very  fine  buildings  here,  beautiful  churches, 
and  the  University,  and  the  Castle,  and  the  Augustinian 
Monastery,  and  we  have  no  doubt  that  in  time  the 
rest  of  the  town  will  grow  up  to  them.  I  have  heard 
our  grandmother  say  that  babies  with  features  too  large 
for  their  faces  often  prove  the  handsomest  people  when 
they  grow  up  to  their  features.  And  so,  no  doubt,  it 
will  be  with  Wittenberg,  which  is  at  present  certainly 
rather  like  an  infant  with  the  eyes  and  nose  of  a  full- 
grown  man.  The  mud  walls  and  low  cottages  with 
thatched  roofs  look  strangely  out  of  keeping  with  the 
new  buildings,  the  Elector's  palace  and  church  at  the 
western  end,  the  city  church  in  the  centre,  and  the 
Augustinian  cloister  and  university  at  the  eastern  ex- 
tremity, near  the  Elster  gate,  close  to  which  we  live. 

It  is  true  that  there  are  no  forests  of  pines,   and 

Schonberg-Cotta  Family.  I.  13 


194     CHRONICLES   OF  THE  SCHONBERG-COTTA  FAMILY. 

wild  hills,  and  lovely  green  valleys  here,  as  around 
Eisenach.  But  our  grandmother  need  not  call  it  a 
wilderness.  The  white  sand-hills  on  the  north  are 
broken  with  little  dells  and  copses;  and  on  the  south, 
not  two  hundred  rods  from  the  town,  across  a  heath, 
flows  the  broad,  rapid  Elbe. 

The  great  river  is  a  delight  to  me.  It  leads  one's 
thoughts  back  to  its  quiet  sources  among  the  moun- 
tains, and  onwards  to  its  home  in  the  great  sea.  We 
had  no  great  river  at  Eisenach,  which  is  an  advantage 
on  the  side  of  Wittenberg.  And  then  the  banks  are 
fringed  with  low  oaks  and  willows,  which  bend  affec- 
tionately over  the  water,  and  are  delightful  to  sit 
amongst  on  summer  evenings. 

If  I  were  not  a  little  afraid  of  the  people!  The 
father  does  not  like  Eva  and  me  to  go  out  alone.  The 
students  are  rather  wild.  This  year,  however,  they 
have  been  forbidden  by  the  rector  to  carry  arms,  which 
is  some  comfort.  But  the  town's-people  also  are  war- 
like and  turbulent,  and  drink  a  great  deal  of  beer. 
There  are  one  hundred  and  seventy  breweries  in  the 
place,  although  there  are  not  more  than  three  hundred 
and  fifty  houses.  Few  of  the  inhabitants  send  their 
children  to  school,  although  there  are  five  hundred 
students  from  all  parts  of  Germany  at  the  university. 

Some  of  the  poorer  people,  who  come  from  the 
country  aronnd  to  the  markets,  talk  a  language  I  can- 
not understand.  Our  grandmother  says  they  are  Wends, 
and  that  this  town  is  the  last  place  on  the  borders  of 
the  civilized  world.  Beyond  it,  she  declares,  there 
are  nothing  but  barbarians  and  Tartars.  Indeed,  she 
is  not  sure  whether  our  neighbours  themselves  are 
Christians. 


ELSE'S   STORY.  195 

St.  Boniface ,  the  great  apostle  of  the  Saxons ,  did 
not  extend  his  labours  further  than  Saxony;  and  she 
says  the  Teutonic  knights  who  conquered  Prussia  and 
the  regions  beyond  us,  were  only  Christian  colonists 
living  in  the  midst  of  half-heathen  savages.  To  me  it 
is  rather  a  gloomy  idea,  to  think  that  between  Witten- 
berg and  the  Turks  and  Tartars,  or  even  the  savages 
in  the  Indies  beyond,  which  Christopher  Columbus  has 
discovered,  there  are  only  a  few  half-civilized  Wends, 
living  in  those  wretched  hamlets  which  dot  the  sandy 
heaths  around  the  town. 

But  the  father  says  it  is  a  glorious  idea,  and  that, 
if  he  were  only  a  little  younger,  he  would  organize  a 
land  expedition,  and  traverse  the  country  until  he 
reached  the  Spaniards  and  the  Portuguese,  who  sailed 
to  the  same  point  by  sea. 

"Only  to  think,"  he  says,  "that  in  a  few  weeks, 
or  months  at  the  utmost,  we  might  reach  Cathay,  El 
Dorado,  and  even  Atlantis  itself,  where  the  houses  are 
roofed  and  paved  with  gold,  and  return  laden  with 
treasures!"  It  seems  to  make  him  feel  even  his  ex- 
periments with  the  retorts  and  crucibles  in  which  he  is 
always  on  the  point  of  transmuting  lead  into  silver, 
to  be  tame  and  slow  processes.  Since  we  have  been 
here,  he  lias  for  the  time  abandoned  his  alchemical  ex- 
periments, and  sits  for  hours  with  a  great  map  spread 
before  him,  calculating  in  the  most  accurate  and  elaborate 
manner  how  long  it  would  take  to  reach  the  new 
Spanish  discoveries  byway  of  Wendish  Prussia.  "For," 
he  remarks,  "if  I  am  never  able  to  carry  out  the 
scheme  myself,  it  may  one  day  immortalize  one  of 
my  sons,  and  enrich  and  ennoble  the  whole  of  our 
family!" 

13* 


196     CHRONICLES   OF  THE  SCHONBERG-COTTA  FAMILY. 

Our  journey  from  Eisenach  was  one  continual  fete 
to  the  children.  For  my  mother  and  the  baby  —  now 
two  years  old  —  we  made  a  couch  in  the  waggon,  of 
the  family  bedding.  My  grandmother  sat  erect  in  a 
nook  among  the  furniture.  Little  Thekla  was  enthroned 
like  a  queen  on  a  pile  of  pillows,  where  she  sat 
hugging  her  own  especial  treasures,  —  her  broken 
doll,  the  wooden  horse  Christopher  made  for  her,  a 
precious  store  of  cones  and  pebbles  from  the  forest, 
and  a  very  shaggy  disreputable  foundling  dog  which 
she  has  adopted,  and  can  by  no  means  be  persuaded 
to  part  with.  She  calls  the  dog  Nix,  and  is  sure  that 
he  is  always  asking  her  with  his  wistful  eyes  to  teach 
him  to  speak,  and  give  him  a  soul.  With  these,  her 
household  gods,  preserved  to  her,  she  showed  little 
feeling  at  parting  from  the  rest  of  our  Eisenach  world. 

The  father  was  equally  absorbed  with  his  treasures, 
his  folios,  and  models,  and  instruments,  which  he 
jealously  guarded. 

Eva  had  but  one  inseparable  treasure,  the  volume 
of  the  "Theologia  Germanica,"  which  she  has  appro- 
priated. 

The  mother's  especial  thought  was  the  baby.  Chriem- 
hild  was  overwhelmed  with  the  parting  with  Pollux, 
who  was  left  behind  with  Cousin  Conrad  Cotta;  and 
Atlantis  was  so  wild  with  delight  at  the  thought  of  the 
new  world  and  the  new  life,  from  which  she  was  per- 
suaded all  the  cares  of  the  old  were  to  be  extracted 
for  ever,  that,  had  it  not  been  for  Christopher  and  me, 
I  must  say  the  general  interests  of  the  family  would 
have  been  rather  in  the  background. 

For  the  time  there  was  a  truce  between  Christopher 
and  me  concerning  "Reinecke  Fucks,"  and  our  various 


ELSE'S  STORY.  197 

differences.  All  Lis  faculties  —  which  have  heen  so 
prolific  for  mischief  —  seemed  suddenly  turned  into 
useful  channels ,  like  the  mischievous  elves  of  the  farm 
and  hearth,  when  they  are  capriciously  bent  on  doing 
some  poor  human  being  a  good  turn.  He  scarcely 
tried  my  temper  once  during  the  whole  journey.  Since 
we  reached  Wittenberg,  however,  I  cannot  say  as 
much.  I  feel  anxious  about  the  companions  he  has 
found  among  the  students,  and  often,  often  I  long  that 
Fritz's  religion  had  led  him  to  remain  among  us,  at 
least  until  the  boys  had  grown  up. 

I  had  nerved  myself  beforehand  for  the  leave-taking 
with  the  old  friends  and  the  old  home,  but  when  the 
moving  actually  began,  there  was  no  time  to  think  of 
anything  but  packing  in  the  last  things  which  had 
been  nearly  forgotten,  and  arranging  every  one  in 
their  places.  I  had  not  even  a  moment  for  a  last  look 
at  the  old  house,  for  at  the  instant  we  turned  the 
corner,  Thekla  and  her  treasures  nearly  came  to  an 
untimely  end  by  the  downfall  of  one  of  the  father's 
machines;  which  so  discouraged  Thekla,  and  excited 
our  grandmother,  Nix,  and  the  baby,  that  it  required 
considerable  soothing  to  restore  every  one  to  equanimity, 
and,  in  the  meantime,  the  corner  of  the  street  had 
been  turned,  and  the  dear  old  house  was  out  of  sight. 
I  felt  a  pang,  as  if  I  had  wronged  it,  the  old  home 
which  had  sheltered  us  so  many  years,  and  been  the 
silent  witness  of  so  many  joys,  and  cares,  and  sor- 
rows! 

We  had  few  adventures  during  the  first  day,  ex- 
cept that  Thekla's  peace  was  often  broken  by  the  diffi- 
culties in  which  Nix's  self-confident  but  not  very 
courageous   disposition    frequently   involved    him  with 


198     CHRONICLES   OF  THE  SCHONBERGrCOTTA  FAMILY. 

the  cats  and  dogs  in  the  villages,  and  their  proprie- 
tors.. 

The  first  evening  in  the  forest  was  delightful.  We 
encamped  in  a  clearing.  Sticks  were  gathered  for  a 
fire,  round  which  we  arranged  such  bedding  and  furni- 
ture as  we  could  unpack,  and  the  children  were  wild 
with  delight  at  thus  combining  serious  household  work 
with  play,  whilst  Christopher  foddered  and  tethered  the 
horses. 

After  our  meal  we  began  to  tell  stories,  but  our 
grandmother  positively  forbade  our  mentioning  the  name 
of  any  of  the  forest  sprites,  or  of  any  evil  or  question- 
able creature  whatever. 

In  the  night  I  could  not  sleep.  All  was  so  strange 
and  grand  around  us,  and  it  did  seem  to  me  that  there 
were  wailings  and  sighings  and  distant  moanings  among 
the  pines,  not  quite  to  be  accounted  for  by  the  wind. 
I  grew  rather  uneasy,  and  at  length  lifted  my  head  to 
see  if  any  one  else  was  awake. 

Opposite  me  sat  Eva,  her  face  lifted  to  the  stars, 
her  hands  clasped,  and  her  lips  moving  as  if  in  prayer. 
I  felt  her  like  a  guardian  angel,  and  instinctively  drew 
nearer  to  her. 

"Eva,"  I  whispered  at  last,  "do  you  not  think 
there  are  rather  strange  and  unaccountable  noises  around 
us?  I  wonder  if  it  can  be  true  that  strange  creatures 
haunt  the  forests." 

"  I  think  there  are  always  spirits  around  us,  Cousin 
Else,"  she  replied,  "good  and  evil  spirits  prowling  around 
us,  or  ministering  to  us.  I  suppose  in  the  solitude  we 
feel  them  nearer,  and  perhaps  they  are." 

I  was  not  at  all  re-assured. 

"Eva,"  I  said,  "I  wish  you  would  say  some  prayers; 


else's  story.  199 

I  feel  afraid  I  may  not  think  of  the  right  ones.  But 
are  you  really  not  at, all  afraid?" 

"Why  should  I  be?"  she  said  softly,  "God  is 
nearer  us  always  than  all  the  spirits,  good  or  evil,  — ■ 
nearer  and  greater  than  all.  And  he  is  the  Supreme 
Goodness.  I  like  the  solitude,  Cousin  Else,  because 
it  seems  to  lift  me  above  all  the  creatures  to  the  One 
who  is  all  and  in  all.  And  I  like  the  wild  forests," 
she  continued,  as  if  to  herself,  "because  God  is  the 
only  owner  there,  and  I  can  feel  more  unreservedly, 
that  we,  and  the  creatures,  and  all  we  most  call  our 
own,  are  His,  aad  only  His.  In  the  cities,  the  houses 
are  called  fter  the  names  of  men,  and  each  street  and 
house  is  divided  into  little  plots,  of  each  of  which  some 
one  says,  'It  is  mine.'  But  here  all  is  visibly  only 
God's,  undivided,  common  to  all.  There  is  but  one 
table ,  and  that  is  His ;  the  creatures  live  as  free  pensioners 
on  His  bounty." 

"Is  it  then  sin  to  call  anything  our  own?"  I 
asked. 

"My  book  says  it  was  this  selfishness  that  was  the 
cause  of  Adam's  fall,"  she  replied.  "Some  say  it  was 
because  Adam  ate  the  apple  that  he  was  lost,  or  fell; 
but  my  book  says  it  was  'because  of  his  claiming  some- 
thing for  his  own;  and  because  of  his  saying,  I,  mine, 
me,  and  the  like.'  " 

"That  is  very  difficult  to  understand."  I  said, 
"Am  I  not  to  say,  My  mother,  my  father,  my  Fritz? 
Ought  I  to  love  every  one  the  same  because  all  are 
equally  God's?  If  property  is  sin,  then  why  is  steal- 
ing sin?  Eva,  this  religion  is  quite  above  and  beyond 
me.  It  seems  to  me  in  this  way  it  would  be  almost  as 
wrong  to  give  thanks  for  what  we  have,   as  to  covet 


200     CHRONICLES  OP  THE  SCHONBERG-OOTTA  FAMILY. 

what  we  have  not,  because  we  ought  not  to  think  we 
have  anything.     It  perplexes  me  extremely." 

I  lay  down  again,  resolved  not  to  think  any  more 
about  it.  Fritz  and  I  proved  once,  a  long  time  ago, 
how  useless  it  is  for  me ,  at  least ,  to  attempt  to  get  beyond 
the  Ten  Commandments.  But  trying  to  comprehend 
what  Eva  said  so  bewildered  me,  that  my  thoughts 
soon  wandered  beyond  my  control  altogether.  I  heard 
no  more  of  Eva  or  the  winds,  but  fell  into  a  sound 
slumber,  and  dreamt  that  Eva  and  an  angel  were  talking 
beside  me  all  night  in  Latin,  which  I  felt  I  ought  to 
understand,  but  of  course  could  not. 

The  next  day  we  had  not  been  long  on  our  journey 
when,  at  a  narrow  part  of  the  road,  in  a  deep  valley, 
a  company  of  horsemen  suddenly  dashed  down  from  a 
castle  which  towered  on  our  right,  and  barred  our 
further  progress  with  serried  lances. 

"Do  you  belong  to  Erfurt?"  asked  the  leader, 
turning  our  horses'  heads,  and  pushing  Christopher 
aside  with  the  butt  end  of  his  gun. 

"No,"  said  Christopher,  "to  Eisenach." 

"Give  way,  men,"  shouted  the  knight  to  his  fol- 
lowers-, "we  have  no  quarrel  with  Eisenach.  This  is 
not  what  we  are  waiting  for." 

The  cavaliers  made  a  passage  for  us,  but  a  young 
knight  who  seemed  to  lead  them  rode  on  beside  us  for 
a  time. 

"Did  you  pass  any  merchandise  on  your  road?" 
he  asked  of  Christopher,  using  the  form  of  address  he 
would  have  to  a  peasant. 

"We  are  not  likely  to  pass  anything,"  replied 
Christopher,  not  very  courteously,  "laden  as  we  are." 

"What  is  your  lading?"  asked  the  knight. 


ELSE'S  STORY.  201 

"All  our  worldly  goods,"  replied  Christopher, 
curtly. 

"What  is  your  name,  friend,  and  where  are  you 
bound?" 

"Cotta,"  answered  Christopher.  "My  father  is  the 
director  of  the  Elector's  printing  press  at  the  new 
University  of  "Wittenberg." 

"Cotta!"  rejoined  the  knight  more  respectfully,  "a 
good  burgher  name;"  and  saying  this  he  rode  back  to 
the  waggon,  and  saluting  our  father,  surveyed  us  all 
with  a  cool  freedom,  as  if  his  notice  honoured  us,  until 
his  eye  lighted  on  Eva,  who  was  sitting  with  her  arm 
round  Thekla,  soothing  the  frightened  child,  and  helping 
her  to  arrange  some  violets  Christopher  had  gathered  a 
few  minutes  before.  His  voice  lowered  when  he  saw 
her,  and  he  said,  — 

"This  is  no  burgher  maiden,  surely?  May  I  ask 
your  name,  fair  Fraulein?"  he  said,  doffing  his  hat 
and  addressing  Eva. 

She  made  no  reply,  but  continued  arranging  her 
flowers,  without  changing  feature  or  colour,  except  that 
her  lip  curled  and  quivered  slightly. 

"The  Fraulein  is  absorbed  with  her  bouquet;  would 
that  we  were  nearer  our  Schloss,  that  I  might  offer  her 
flowers  more  worthy  of  her  handling." 

"Are  you  addressing  me?"  said  Eva  at  length, 
raising  her  large  eyes,  and  fixing  them  on  him  with 
her  gravest  expression;  "I  am  no  Fraulein,  I  am  a 
burgher  maiden;  but  if  I  were  a  queen,  any  of  God's 
flowers  would  be  fair  enough  for  me.  And  to  a  true 
knight,"  she  added,  "a  peasant  maiden  is  as  sacred  as 
a  queen." 

No  one  ever  could  trifle  with  that  earnest  expres- 


202     CHRONICLES   OF   THE   SCHONBERG-COTTA  FAMILY. 

sion  of  Eva's  face.  It  was  his  turn  to  be  abashed. 
His  effrontery  failed  him  altogether,  and  he  murmured, 
"I  have  merited  the  rebuke.  These  flowers  are  too 
fair,  at  least  for  me.  If  you  would  bestow  one  on  me, 
I  would  keep  it  sacredly  as  a  gift  of  my  mother's  or 
as  the  relics  of  a  saint." 

"You  can  gather  them  anywhere  in  the  forest," 
said  Eva;  but  little  Thekla  filled  both  her  little  hands 
with  violets,  and  gave  them  to  him. 

"You  may  have  them  all  if  you  like,"  she  said; 
"Christopher  can  gather  us  plenty  more." 

He  took  them  carefully  from  the  child's  hand,  and, 
bowing  low,  rejoined  his  men  who  were  in  front.  He 
then  returned,  said  a  few  words  to  Christopher,  and 
with  his  troop  retired  to  some  distance  behind,  us,  and 
followed  us  till  we  were  close  to  Erfurt,  when  he 
spurred  on  to  my  father's  side,  and  saying  rapidly, 
"You  will  be  safe  now,  and  need  no  further  convoy," 
once  more  bowed  respectfully  to  us,  and  rejoining  his 
men,  we  soon  lost  the  echo  of  their  horse-hoofs,  as  they 
galloped  back  through  the  forest. 

"What  did  the  knight  say  to  you,  Christopher?" 
I  asked,  when  we  dismounted  at  Erfurt  that  evening. 

"He  said  that  part  of  the  forest  was  dangerous  at 
present,  because  of  a  feud  between  the  knights  and  the 
burghers,  and  if  we  would  allow  him,  he  would  be  our 
escort  until  we  came  in  sight  of  Erfurt." 

"That,  at  least,  was  courteous  of  him,"  I  said. 

"Such  courtesy  as  a  burgher  may  expect  of  a 
knight,"  rejoined  Christopher,  uncompromisingly;  "to 
insult  us  without  provocation,  and  then,  as  a  favour, 
exemp-t  us   from   their  own   illegal   oppressions!      But 


elsk's  story.  203 

women  are  always  fascinated  with  what  men  on  horse- 
back do." 

"No  one  is  fascinated  with  any  one,"  I  replied. 
For  it  always  provokes  me  exceedingly  when  that  boy 
talks  in  that  way  about  women.  And  our  grandmother 
interposed,  —  "Don't  dispute,  children;  if  your  grand- 
father had  not  been  unfortunate,  you  would  have  been 
of  the  knights'  order  yourselves,  therefore  it  is  not  for 
you  to  run  down  the  nobles." 

"I  should  never  have  been  a  knight,"  persisted 
Christopher,  "or  a  priest  or  a  robber."  But  it  was  con- 
solatory to  my  grandmother  and  me  to  consider  how 
exalted  our  position  would  have  been,  had  it  not  been 
for  certain  little  unfortunate  hindrances.  Our  grand- 
mother never  admitted  my  father  into  the  pedigree. 

At  Leipsic  we  left  the  children,  while  our  grand- 
mother, our  mother,  Eva,  and  I  went  on  foot  to  see 
Aunt  Agnes  at  the  convent  of  Nimptschen,  whither  she 
had  been  transferred,  some  years  before,  from  Eisenach. 

We  only  saw  her  through  the  convent  grating. 
But  it  seemed  to  me  as  if  the  voice,  and  manner,  and 
face  were  entirely  unchanged  since  that  last  interview 
when  she  terrified  me  as  a  child  by  asking  me  to  be- 
come a  sister,  and  abandon  Fritz. 

Only  the  voice  sounded  to  me  even  moie  like  a 
muffled  bell  used  only  for  funerals,  especially  when 
she  said,  in  reference  to  Fritz's  entering  the  cloister, 
"Praise  to  God,  and  the  blessed  Virgin,  and  all  the 
saints.  At  last,  then,  He  has  heard  my  unworthy 
prayers;  one  at  least  is  saved!" 

A  cold  shudder  passed  over  me  at  her  words.  Had 
she  then,  indeed,  all  these  years  been  praying  that  our 
happiness  should  be  ruined  and  our  home  desolated? 


204     CHRONICLES  OF  THE  SCHONBERG-COTTA  FAMILY. 

And  had  God  heard  her?  "Was  the  fatal  spell,  which 
my  mother  feared  was  binding  us,  after  all  nothing  else 
than  Aunt  Agnes's  terrible  prayers? 

Her  face  looked  as  lifeless  as  ever,  in  the  folds  of 
white  linen  which  bound  it  into  a  regular  oval.  Her 
voice  was  metallic  and  lifeless;  the  touch  of  her  hand 
was  impassive  and  cold  as  marble  when  we  took  leave 
of  her.  My  mother  wept,  and  said,  "Dear  Agnes,  per- 
haps we  may  never  meet  again  on  earth." 

"Perhaps  not,"  was  the  reply. 

"You  will  not  forget  us,  sister?"  said  my  mother. 

"I  never  forget  you,"  was  the  reply,  in  the  same 
deep,  low,  firm,  irresponsive  voice,  which  seemed  as  if 
it  had  never  vibrated  to  anything  more  human  than  an 
organ  playing  Gregorian  chants. 

And  the  words  echo  in  my  heart  to  this  instant, 
like  a  knell. 

She  never  forgets  us. 

Nightly  in  her  vigils,  daily  in  church  and  cell,  she 
watches  over  us,  and  prays  God  not  to  let  us  be  too 
happy. 

And  God  hears  her,  and  grants  her  prayers.  It  is 
too  clear  He  does!  Had  she  not  been  asking  Him  to 
make  Fritz  a  monk?  and  is  not  Fritz  separated  from 
us  for  ever? 

"How  did  you  like  the  convent,  Eva?"  I  said  to 
her  that  night  when  we  were  alone. 

"It  seemed  very  still  and  peaceful,"  she  said.  "I 
think  one  could  be  very  happy  there.  There  would  be 
so  much  time  for  prayer.  One  could  perhaps  more 
easily  lose  self  there,  and  become  nearer  to  God." 

"But  what  do  you  think  of  Aunt  Agnes?" 

"I  felt  drawn  to  her.     I  think  she  has  suffered." 


ELSE'S   STORV.  205 

"She  seems  to  be  dead  alike  to  joy  or  suffering," 
I  said. 

"But  people  do  not  thus  die  without  pain,"  said 
Eva  very  gravely. 

Our  house  at  Wittenberg  is  small.  From  the  upper 
windows  we  look  over  the  city  walls,  across  the  heath, 
to  the  Elbe,  which  gleams  and  sparkles  between  its 
willows  and  dwarf  oaks.  Behind  the  house  is  a  plot 
of  neglected  ground,  which  Christopher  is  busy  at  his 
leisure  hours  trenching  and  spading  into  an  herb-garden. 
We  are  to  have  a  few  flowers  on  the  borders  of  the 
straight  walk  which  intersects  it,  —  daffodils,  pansies, 
roses,  and  sweet  violets  and  gilliflowers,  and  wallflowers. 
At  the  end  of  the  garden  are  two  apple  trees  and  a 
pear  tree,  which  had  shed  their  blossoms  just  before 
we  arrived,  in  a  carpet  of  pink  and  white  petals. 
Under  the  shade  of  these  I  carry  my  embroidery  frame, 
when  the  house  work  is  finished;  and  sometimes  little 
Thekla  comes  and  prattles  to  me,  and  sometimes  Eva 
reads  and  sings  to  me.  I  cannot  help  regretting  that 
lately  Eva  is  so  absorbed  with  that  "Theologia  Ger- 
manica."  I  cannot  understand  it  as  well  as  I  do  the 
Latin  hymns  when  once  she  has  translated  them  to 
me;  for  these  speak  of  Jesus  the  Saviour,  who  left  the 
heavenly  home  and  sat  weary  by  the  way  seeking  for 
us;  or  of  Mary  his  dear  mother;  and  although  some- 
times they  tell  of  wrath  and  judgment ,  at  all  events  I 
know  what  it  means.  But  this  other  book  is  all  to  me 
one  dazzling  haze,  without  sun,  or  moon,  or  stars,  or 
heaven,  or  earth,  or  seas,  or  anything  distinct,  —  but 
all  a  blaze  of  indistinguishable  glory,  which  is  God; 
the  One  who  is  all  —  a  kind  of  ocean  of  goodness,  in 
which,   in  some  mysterious  way,   we  ought   to  be  ab- 


206     CHRONICLES   OF  THE  SCHONBERG-COTTA  FAMILY. 

sorbed.  But  I  am  not  an  ocean,  or  any  part  of  one; 
and  I  cannot  love  an  ocean  because  it  is  infinite,  or 
unfathomable,  or  all-sufficient,  or  anything  else. 

My  mother's  thought  of  God,  as  watching  lest  we 
should  be  too  happy  and  love  any  one  more  than  him- 
self, remembering  the  mistakes  and  sins  of  youth ,  and 
delaying  to  punish  them  until  just  the  moment  when 
the  punishment  would  be  most  keenly  felt,  is  dreadful 
enough.  But  even  that  is  not  to  me  so  bewildering 
and  dreary  as  this  all-absorbing  Being  in  Eva's  book. 
The  God  my  mother  dreads  has  indeed  eyes  of  severest 
justice,  and  a  frown  of  wrath  against  the  sinner;  but  if 
once  one  could  learn  how  to  please  him,  the  eyes  might 
smile,  the  frown  might  pass.  It  is  a  countenance;  and 
a  heart  which  might  meet  ours!  But  when  Eva  reads 
her  book  to  me,  I  seem  to  look  up  into  heaven  and 
see  nothing  but  heaven  —  light,  space,  infinity,  and 
still  on  and  on,  infinity  and  light;  a  moral  light,  in- 
deed —  perfection,  purity,  goodness;  but  no  eyes  I 
can  look  into,  no  heart  to  meet  mine  —  none  whom  I 
could  speak  to,  or  touch,  or  see! 

This  evening  we  opened  our  window  and  looked  out 
across  the  heath  to  the  Elbe. 

The  town  was  quite  hushed.  The  space  of  sky 
above  us  over  the  plain  looked  so  large  and  deep. 
We  seemed  to  see  range  after  range  of  stars  beyond 
each  other  in  the  clear  air.  The  only  sound  was  the 
distant,  steady  rush  of  the  broad  river,  which  gleamed 
here  and  there  in  the  starlight. 

Eva  was  looking  up  with  her  calm,  bright  look. 
"Thine!"  she  murmured,  "all  this  is  Thine;  and  we 
are  Thine,  and  Thou  art  here!  How  much  happier  it 
is  to  be  able  to  look  up  and  feel  there  is  no  barrier  of 


else's  story.  207 

bur  own  poor  ownership  between  us  and  Him,  the 
Possessor  of  heaven  and  earth!  How  much  poorer  we 
should  be  if  we  were  lords  of  this  land,  like  the  Elector, 
and  if  we  said,  'AH  this  is  mine!'  and  so  saw  only  I 
and  mine  in  it  all,  instead  of  God  and  God's!" 

"Yes,"  I  said,  "if  we  ended  in  saying  I  and  mine-, 
but  I  should  be  very  thankful  if  God  gave  us  a  little 
more  out  of  his  abundance,  to  use  for  our  wants.  And 
yet,  how  much  better  things  are  with  us  than  they 
were!  —  the  appointment  of  my  father  as  director  of 
the  Elector's  printing  establishment,  instead  of  a  pre- 
carious struggle  for  ourselves;  and  this  embroidery  of 
mine!  It  seems  to  me,  Eva,  sometimes,  we  might  be  a 
happy  family  yet." 

"My  book,"  she  replied  thoughtfully,  "says  we 
shall  never  be  truly  satisfied  in  God,  or  truly  free,  un- 
less all  things  are  one  to  us,  and  One  is  all,  and  some- 
thing and  nothing  are  alike.  I  suppose  I  am  not  quite 
truly  free,  Cousin  Else,  for  I  cannot  like  this  place 
quite  as  much  as  the  old  Eisenach  home." 

I  began  to  feel  quite  impatient,  and  I  said,  —  "Nor 
can  I  or  any  of  us  ever  feel  any  home  quite  the  same 
again,  since  Fritz  is  gone.  But  as  to  feeling  something 
and  nothing  are  alike,  I  never  can,  and  I  will  never 
try.     One  might  as  well  be  dead  at  once." 

"Yes,"  said  Eva  gravely,  "I  suppose  we  shall  never 
comprehend  it  quite,  or  be  quite  satisfied  and  free,  until 
we  die." 

We  talked  no  more  that  night;  but  I  heard  her 
singing  one  of  her  favourite  hymns :  *  — 

*  Ad  perennis  vitas  fontem  mens  sitivit  arida, 

Claustra  carnis  prsestb  frangi  clausa  quarit  anima, 
Gliseit,  ambit,  electatur,  esul  frui  patria. 
&c.  &c.  &c. 

The  translation  only  is  given  above. 


208     CHRONICLES   OF  THE  SCHONBERG-COTTA  FAMILY. 

Ill  the  fount  of  life  perennial  the  parched  heari  its  thirst  would  slake, 
And  the  soul,  in  flesh  imprisoned,  longs  her  prison-walls  to  break,  — 
Exile,  seeking,  sighing,  yearning  in  her  Fatherland  to  wake. 

When  with  cares  oppressed  and  sorrows,  only  groans  her  grief  can  tell, 
Then  she  contemplates  the  glory  which  she  lost  when  first  she  fell: 
Memory  of  the  vanished  good  the  present  evil  can  but  swell. 

Who  can  utter  what  the  pleasures  and  the  peace  unbroken  are 
Whore  arise  the  pearly  mansions,  shedding  silvery  light  afar  — 
Festive  seats  and  golden  roofs,  which  glitter  like  the  evening  star? 

Wholly  of  fair  stones  most  precious  are  those  radiant  structures  made ; 
With  pure  gold,  like  glass  transparent,  are  those  shining  streets  inlaid ; 
Nothing  that  defiles  can  enter,  nothing  that  can  soil  or  fade. 

Stormy  winter,  burning  summer,  rage  within  those  regions  never ; 

But  perpetual  bloom  of  roses,  and  unfading  spring  for  ever ; 

Lilies  gleam,  the  crocus  glows,  and  dropping  balms  their  scents  deliver; 

Honey  pure,  and  greenest  pastures,  —  this  the  land  of  promise  is : 
Liquid  odours  soft  distilling,  perfumes  breathing  on  the  breeze; 
Fruits  immortal  cluster  always  on  the  leafy,  fadeless  trees. 

There  no  moon  shines  chill  and  changing,  there  no  stars  with  twinkling 

ray,  — 
For  the  Lamb  of  that  blest  city  is  at  once  the  sun  and  day ; 
Night  and  time  are  known  no  longer,  —  day  shall  never  fade  away. 

There  the  saints,  like  suns,  are  radiant,  —  like  the  sun  at  dawn  they  glow ; 

Crowned  victors  after  conflict,  all  their  joys  together  flow; 

And,  secure,  they  count  the  battles  where  they  fought  the  prostrate  foe. 

Every  stain  of  flesh  is  cleansed,  every  strife  is  left  behind ; 
Spiritual  are  their  bodies,  —  perfect  unity  of  mind ; 
Dwelling  in  deep  peace  for  ever,  no  offence  or  grief  they  find. 

Putting  off  their  mortal  vesture,  in  their  Source  their  souls  they  steep,  — 
Truth  by  actual  vision  learning,  on  its  form  their  gaze  they  keep,  — 
Drinking  from  the  living  Fountain  draughts  of  living  waters  deep. 

Time,  with  all  its  alternations,  enters  not  those  hosts  among,  — 

Glorious ,  wakeful ,  blest,  no  shade  of  chance  or  change  o'er  them  is  flung ; 

Sickness  cannot  touch  the  deathless,  nor  old  age  the  ever  young. 

There  their  being  is  eternal,  —  things  that  cease  have  ceased  to  be; 
All  corruption  there  has  perished,  —  there  they  flourish  strong  and  free ; 
Thus  mortality  is  swallowed  up  of  life  eternally. 

Nought   from  them  is   hidden,  —  knowing  Him   to  whom  all  things  are 

known 
All  the  spirit's  deep  recesses,  sinless,  to  each  other  shown,  — 
Unity  of  will  and  purpose,  heart  and  mind  for  ever  one. 


else's  story.  209 

Divorse  as  their  varied  labours  the  rewards  to  each  that  fall ; 
But  Love,  what  she  loves  in  others  evermore  her  own  doth  call: 
Thus  the  several  joy  of  each  becomes  the  common  joy  of  all. 

Where  the  body  is,  there  ever  are  the  eagles  gathered ; 

For  the  saints  and  for  the  angels  one  most  blessed  feast  is  spread,  — 

Citizens  of  either  country  living  on  the  self-same  bread. 

Ever  filled  and  ever  seeking,  what  they  have  they  still  desire 
Hunger  there  shall  fret  them  never,  nor  satiety  shall  tire,  — 
Still  enjoying  whilst  aspiring,  in  their  joy  they  still  aspire. 

There  the  new  song,  new  for  ever,  those  melodious  voices  sing,  — 
Ceaseless  streams  of  fullest  music  through  those  blessed  regions  ring  ! 
Crowned  victors  ever  bringing  praises  worthy  of  the  King! 

Blessed  who  the  King  of  Heaven  in  his  beauty  thus  behold, 
And,  beneath  his  throne  rejoicing,  see  the  universe  unfold,  — 
Sun  and  moon,  and  stars  and  planets,  radiant  in  his  light  unrolled. 

Christ,  the  Palm  of  faithful  victors!  of  that  city  make  me  free; 
When  my  warfare  shall  be  ended,  to  its  mansions  lead  thou  me ; 
Grant  me,  with  its  happy  inmates,  sharer  of  thy  gifts  to  be ! 

Let  thy  soldier,  still  contending,  still  be  with  thy  strength  supplied ; 
Thou  wilt  not  deny  the  quiet  when  the  arms  are  laid  aside; 
Make  me  meet  with  thee  for  ever  in  that  country  to  abide ! 

Passion  Week. 

Wittenberg  has  been  very  full  this  week.  There 
have  been  great  mystery-plays  in  the  City  Church;  and 
in  the  Electoral  Church  (Schloss  Kirche)  all  the  relics 
have  been  solemnly  exhibited.  Crowds  of  pilgrims 
have  come  from  all  the  neighbouring  villages,  Wendish 
and  Saxon.  It  has  been  very  unpleasant  to  go  about 
the  streets,  so  much  beer  has  been  consumed;  and  the 
students  and  peasants  have  had  frequent  encounters. 
It  is  certainly  a  comfort  that  there  are  large  indulgences 
to  be  obtained  by  visiting  the  relics,  for  the  pilgrims 
seem  to  need  a  great  deal  of  indulgence. 

The  sacred  mystery-plays  were  very  magnificent. 
The  Judas  was  wonderfully  hateful,  —  hunchbacked, 
and  dressed  like  a  rich  Jewish  miser;   and  the  devils 

Schonberg-Cotta  Family.  I.  14 


210     CHRONICLES   OF  THE  SCHONBERG-COTTA  FAMILY. 

were  dreadful  enough  to  terrify  the  children  for  a  year. 
Little  Thekla  was  dressed  in  white,  with  gauze  wings, 
and  made  a  lovely  angel  —  and  enjoyed  it  very  much. 
They  wanted  Eva  to  represent  one  of  the  holy  women 
at  the  cross,  but  she  would  not.  Indeed  she  nearly 
wept  at  the  thought,  and  did  not  seem  to  like  the  whole 
ceremony  at  all.  "It  all  really  happened!"  she  said; 
"they  really  crucified  Him!  And  He  is  risen,  and  living 
in  heaven;  and  I  cannot  bear  to  see  it  performed,  like 
a  fable." 

The  second  day  there  was  certainly  more  jesting  and 
satire  than  I  liked..  Christopher  said  it  reminded  him 
of  "Reinecke  Fucks." 

In  the  middle  of  the  second  day  we  missed  Eva, 
and  when  in  a  few  hours  I  came  back  to  the  house  to 
seek  her,  I  found  her  kneeling  by  our  bed-side,  sobbing 
as  if  her  heart  would  break.  I  drew  her  towards  me, 
but  I  could  not  discover  that  anything  at  all  was  the 
matter,  except  that  the  young  knight  who  had  stopped 
us  in  the  forest  had  bowed  very  respectfully  to  her, 
and  had  shown  her  a  few  dried  violets,  which  he  said 
he  should  always  keep  in  remembrance  of  her  and  her 
words. 

It  did  not  seem  to  me  so  unpardonable  an  offence, 
and  I  said  so. 

"He  had  no  right  to  keep  anything  for  my  sake!" 
she  sobbed.  "No  one  will  ever  have  any  right  to  keep 
anything  for  my  sake;  and  if  Fritz  had  been  here,  he 
would  never  have  allowed  it." 

"Little  Eva,"  I  said,  "what  has  become  of  your 
'Theologia  Teutsch?'  Your  book  says  you  are  to  take 
all  things  meekly,  and  be  indifferent,  I  suppose,  alike 
to  admiration  and  reproach." 


else's  story.  211 

"Cousin  Else,"  said  Eva  very  gravely,  rising  and 
standing  erect  before  me  with  clasped  bands,  "I  bave 
not  learned  the  'Theologia'  through  well  yet,  but  I 
mean  to  try.  The  world  seems  to  me  very  evil,  and 
very  sad.  And  there  seems  no  place  in  it  for  an  orphan 
girl  like  me.  There  is  no  rest  except  in  being  a  wife 
or  a  nun.  A  wife  I  shall  never  be,  and  therefore,  dear, 
dear  Else,"  she  continued,  kneeling  down  again,  and 
throwing  her  arms  around  me,  "I  have  just  decided  — 
I  will  go  to  the  convent  where  Aunt  Agnes  is,  and  be 
a  nun." 

I  did  not  attempt  to  remonstrate-,  but  the  next  day 
I  told  the  mother,  who  said  gravely,  "She  will  be  hap- 
pier there,  poor  child!     We  must  let  her  go." 

But  she  became  pale  as  death,  her  lip  quivered, 
and  she  added,  —  "Yes,  God  must  have  the  choicest 
of  all.  It  is  in  vain  indeed  to  fight  against  Him!" 
Then,  fearing  she  might  have  wounded  me,  she  kissed 
me  and  said,  —  "Since  Fritz  left,  she  has  grown  so 
very  dear!  But  how  can  I  murmur  when  my  loving 
Else  is  spared  to  us?" 

"Mother,"  I  said,  "do  you  think  Aunt  Agnes  has 
been  praying  again  for  this?" 

"Probably!"  she  replied,  with  a  startled  look.  "She 
did  look  very  earnestly  at  Eva." 

"Then,  mother,"  I  replied,  "I  shall  write  to  Aunt 
Agnes  at  once,  to  tell  her  that  she  is  not  to  make  any 
such  prayers  for  you  or  for  me.  For,  as  to  me,  it  is 
entirely  useless.  And  if  you  were  to  imitate  St.  Eliza- 
beth, and  leave  us,  it  would  break  all  our  hearts,  and 
the  family  would  go  to  ruin  altogether." 

"What  are  you  thinking  of,  Else?"  replied  my 
mother  meekly.    "It  is  too  late  indeed  fur  me  to  think 

14* 


212     CHRONICLES   OP  THE  SCHOXBERG-COTTA  FAMILY. 

of  being  a  saint.  I  can  never  hope  for  anything  beyond 
this,  that  God  in  his  great  mercy  may  one  day  pardon 
me  my  sins,  and  receive  me  as  the  lowest  of  his 
creatures,  for  the  sake  of  his  dear  Son  who  died  upon 
the  cross.  What  could  you  mean  by  my  imitating  St. 
Elizabeth?" 

I  felt  re-assured,  and  did  not  pursue  the  subject, 
fearing  it  might  suggest  what  I  dreaded  to  my  mother. 

Wittenberg,  June  1A. 

And  so  Eva  and  Fritz  are  gone,  the  two  religious 
ones  of  the  family.  They  are  gone  into  their  separate 
convents,  to  be  made  saints,  and  have  left  us  all  to 
struggle  on  in  the  world  without  them,  — with  all  that 
helped  us  to  be  less  earthly  taken  from  us.  It  seems 
to  me  as  if  a  lovely  picture  of  the  Holy  Mother  had 
been  removed  from  the  dwelling-room  since  Eva  has 
gone,  and  instead  we  had  nothing  left  but  family  por- 
traits, and  paintings  of  common  earthly  things;  or  as  if 
a  window  opening  towards  the  stars  had  been  covered 
by  a  low  ceiling.  She  was  always  like  a  little  bit  of 
heaven  among  us. 

I  miss  her  in  our  little  room  at  night.  Her  prayers 
seemed  to  hallow  it.  I  miss  her  sweet,  holy  songs  at 
my  embroidery;  and  now  I  have  nothing  to  turn  my 
thoughts  from  the  arrangements  for  to-morrow,  and  the 
troubles  of  yesterday,  and  the  perplexities  of  to-day.  I 
had  no  idea  how  I  must  have  been  leaning  on  her. 
She  always  seemed  so  child-like,  and  so  above  my 
petty  cares  —  and  in  practical  things  I  certainly  under- 
stood much  more;  and  yet,  in  some  way,  whenever  I 
talked  anything  over  with  her,  it  always  seemed  to 
take  the  burden  away,  —  to  change  cares  into  duties 


else's  story.  213 

and  clear  my  thoughts  wonderfully,  —  just  by  lighten- 
ing my  heart.  It  was  not  that  she  suggested  what  to 
do;  hut  she  made  me  feel  things  were  working  for  good, 
not  for  harm  —  that  God  in  some  way  ordered  them  — 
and  then  the  right  thoughts  seemed  to  come  to  me 
naturally. 

Our  mother,  I  am  afraid,  grieves  as  much  as  she 
did  for  Fritz;  hut  she  tries  to  hide  it,  lest  we  should 
feel  her  ungrateful  for  the  love  of  her  children. 

I  have  a  terrible  dread  sometimes  that  Aunt  Agnes 
will  get  her  prayers  answered  about  our  precious  mother 
also,  —  if  not  in  one  way,  in  another.  She  looks  so 
pale  and  spiritless. 

June  %0. 

Christopher  has  just  returned  from  taking  Eva  to 
the  convent.  He  says  she  shed  many  tears  when  he 
left  her;  which  is  a  comfort.  I  could  not  bear  to  think 
that  something  and  nothing  were  alike  to  her  yet!  He 
told  me  also  one  thing,  which  has  made  me  rather 
anxious.  On  the  journey,  Eva  begged  him  to  take 
care  of  our  father's  sight,  which,  she  said,  she  thought 
had  been  failing  a  little  lately.  And  just  before  they 
separated  she  brought  him  a  little  jar  of  distilled  eye- 
water, which  the  nuns  were  skilful  in  making,  and  sent 
it  to  our  father  with  Sister  Ave's  love. 

Certainly  my  father  has  read  less  lately;  and  now 
I  think  of  it,  he  has  asked  me  once  or  twice  to  find 
things  for  him,  and  to  help  him  about  his  models,  in  a 
way  he  never  used  to  do. 

It  is  strange  that  Eva,  with  those  deep,  earnest, 
quiet  eyes,  which  seemed  to  look  about  so  little,  always 
saw  before  any  of  us  what  every  one  wanted.  Darling 
child!  she  will  remember  us,  then,  and  our  little  cares. 


214     CHRONICLES   OF  THE  SCHONBERG-COTTA  FAMILY. 

And  she  will  have  some  eye-water  to  make,  which  will 
be  much  better  for  her  than  reading  all  day  in  that 
melancholy  "Theologia  Tentsch." 

But  are  we  to  call  our  Eva,  Ave?  She  gave  these 
lines  of  the  hymn  in  her  own  writing  to  Christopher, 
to  bring  to  me.  She  often  used  to  sing  it,  and  has 
explained  the  words  to  me:  — 

"Ave,  maris  stella 
Dei  mater  alma 
Atque  semper  virgo 
Felix  coeli  porta. 

Szimens  illud  Ave 
Gabrielis  ore 
Funda  nos  in  pace 
Midans  nomen  Eoce." 

It  is  not  an  uncommon  name,  I  know,  with  nuns. 

Well,  clearly  as  I  loved  the  old  name,  I  cannot 
complain  of  the  change.  Sister  Ave  will  be  as  dear 
to  me  as  Cousin  Eva,  only  a  little  bit  further  off,  and 
nearer  heaven. 

Her  living  so  near  heaven,  while  she  was  with  us, 
never  seemed  to  make  her  further  off,  but  nearer  to 
us  all. 

Now,  however,  it  cannot,  of  course,  be  the  same. 

Our  grandmother  remains  steadfast  to  the  baptismal 
name. 

"Receiving  that  Ave  from  the  lips  of  Gabriel,  the 
blessed  Mother  transformed  the  name  of  our  mother 
Eva!  And  now  our  child  Eva  is  on  her  way  to  be- 
come Saint  Ave,  —  God's  angel  Ave  in  heaven! 

June  30. 

The  young  knight  we  met  in  the  forest  has  called 
at  our  house  to-day. 


else's  story.  215 

I  could  scarcely  command  my  voice  at  first  to  tell 
him  where  our  Eva  is,  because  I  cannot  help  partly 
blaming  him  for  her  leaving  us  at  last. 

"At  Nimptschen!"  he  said;  "then  she  was  noble, 
after  all.  None  but  maidens  of  noble  houses  are  ad- 
mitted there." 

"Yes,"  I  said,  "our  mother's  family  is  noble." 

"She  was  too  heavenly  for  this  world!"  he  mur- 
mured. "Her  face,  and  something  in  her  words  and 
tones,  have  haunted  me  like  a  holy  vision,  or  a  church 
hymn,  ever  since  I  saw  her." 

I  could  not  feel  as  indignant  with  the  young  knight 
as  Eva  did.  And  he  seemed  so  interested  in  our 
father's  models,  that  we  could  not  refuse  him  permis- 
sion to  come  and  see  us  again. 

Yes,  our  Eva  was,  I  suppose,  as  he  says,  too  reli- 
gious and  too  heavenly  for  this  world. 

Only,  as  so  many  of  us  have,  after  all,  to  live  in 
the  world,  unless  the  world  is  to  come  to  an  end  alto- 
gether, it  would  be  a  great  blessing  if  God  had  made 
a  religion  for  us  poor,  secular  people,  as  well  as  one 
for  the  monks  and  nuns. 


216     CHRONICLES  OF  THE  SCHONBERG-COTTA  FAMILY. 


X. 

fritz's  story. 

Rome,  Augustinian  Convent. 

Holy  as  this  city  necessarily  must  be,  consecrated 
by  relics  of  the  church's  most  holy  dead,  consecrated 
by  the  presence  of  her  living  Head,  I  scarcely  think 
religion  is  as  deep  in  the  hearts  of  these  Italians  as  of 
our  poor  Germans  in  the  cold  north. 

But  I  may  mistake;  feeling  of  all  kinds  mani- 
fests itself  in  such  different  ways  with  different  char- 
acters. 

Certainly  the  churches  are  thronged  on  all  great 
occasions,  and  the  festas  are  brilliant.  But  the  people 
seem  rather  to  regard  them  as  holidays  and  dramatic 
entertainments,  than  as  the  solemn  and  sacred  festivals 
we  consider  them  in  Saxony.  This  morning,  for  in- 
stance, I  heard  two  women  criticizing  a  procession  in 
words  such  as  these,  as  far  as  the  little  Italian  I  have 
picked  up  enabled  me  to  understand  them:  — 

"Ah,  Nina  mia,  the  angels  are  nothing  to-day;  you 
should  have  seen  our  Lucia  last  year!  Every  one  said 
she  was  heavenly.  If  the  priests  do  not  arrange  it 
better,  people  will  scarcely  care  to  attend.  Besides,  the 
music  was  execrable." 

"Ah,  the  nuns  of  the  Cistercian  convent  understand 
how  to  manage  a  ceremony.  They  have  ideas!  Did 
you  see  their  Bambino  last  Christmas?  Such  lace!  and 
the  cradle  of  tortoise-shell,  fit  for  an  emperor,  as  it 
should  be!    And  then  their  robes  for  the  Madonna  on 


fritz's  story.  217 

her  fetes!  Cloth  of  gold  embroidered  with  pearls  and 
brilliants  worth  a  treasury!" 

"Yes,"  replied  the  other,  lowering  her  voice,  "I 
have  been  told  the  history  of  those  robes.  A  certain 
lady  who  was  powerful  at  the  late  Holy  Father's  court, 
is  said  to  have  presented  the  dress  in  which  she  ap- 
peared on  some  state  occasion  to  the  nuns  just  as  she 
wore  it." 

"Did  she  become  a  penitent,  then?" 

"A  penitent?  I  do  not  know;  such  an  act  of 
penitence  would  purchase  indulgences  and  masses  to 
last  at  least  for  some  time." 

Brother"  Martin  and  I  do  not  so  much  affect  these 
gorgeous  processions.  These  Italians,  with  their 
glorious  skies  and  the  rich  colouring  of  their  beautiful 
land  require  more  splendour  in  their  religion  than  our 
German  eyes  can  easily  gaze  on  undazzled. 

It  rather  perplexed  us  to  see  the  magnificent  capa- 
risons of  the  horses  of  the  cardinals;  and  more  especially 
to  behold  the  Holy  Father  sitting  on  a  fair  palfrey, 
bearing  the  sacred  Host.  In  Germany,  the  loftiest 
earthly  dignity  prostrates  itself  low  before  that  In- 
effable Presence. 

But  my  mind  becomes  confused.  Heaven  forbid 
that  I  should  call  the  Vicar  of  Christ  an  earthly 
dignitary!  Is  he  not  the  representative  and  oracle  of 
God  on  earth? 

For  this  reason,  —  no  doubt  in  painful  contradic- 
tion to  the  reverent  awe  natural  to  every  Christian  be- 
fore the  Holy  Sacrament,  —  the  Holy  Father  submits 
to  sitting  enthroned  in  the  church,  and  receiving  the 
body  of  our  Creator  through  a  golden  tube  presented 
to  him  by  a  kneeling  cardinal. 


218     CHRONICLES  OF  THE  SCHONBERG-COTTA  FAMILY. 

It  must  be  very  difficult  for  Mm  to  separate  be- 
tween the  office  and  the  person.  It  is  difficult  enough 
for  us.  But  for  the  human  spirit  not  yet  made  per- 
fect to  receive  these  religious  honours  must  be  over- 
whelming. 

Doubtless,  at  night,  when  the  holy  father  humbles 
himself  in  solitude  before  God,  his  self-abasement  is  as 
much  deeper  than  that  of  ordinary  Christians  as  his 
exaltation  is  greater. 

I  must  confess  that  it  is  an  inexpressible  relief  to 
me  to  retire  to  the  solitude  of  my  cell  at  night,  and 
pray  to  Him  of  whom  Brother  Martin  and  I  spoke  iD 
the  Black  Forest;  to  whom  the  homage  of  the  universe 
is  no  burden,  because  it  is  not  mere  prostration  before 
an  office,  but  adoration  of  a  person.  "Holy,  holy,  holy, 
Lord  God  Almighty:  heaven  and  earth  are  full  of  thy 
glory."  _ 

Holiness  —  to  which  almightiness  is  but  an  attri- 
bute, —  Holy  One,  who  hast  loved  and  given  thine 
Holy  One  for  a  sinful  world,  miserere  nobis! 

Kome,  July. 

We  have  diligently  visited  all  the  holy  relics,  and 
offered  prayers  at  every  altar  at  which  especial  indul- 
gences are  procured,  for  ourselves  and  others. 

Brother  Martin  once  said  he  could  almost  wish  his 
father  and  mother  (whom  he  dearly  loves)  were  dead, 
that  he  might  avail  himself  of  the  privileges  of  this 
holy  city  to  deliver  their  souls  from  purgatory. 

He  says  masses  whenever  he  can.  But  the  Italian 
priests  are  often  impatient  with  him  because  he  recites 
the  office  so  slowly.  I  heard  one  of  them  say,  con- 
temptuously, he  had  accomplished  thirty  masses  while 


fritz's  story.  219 

Brother  Martin  only  finished  one.  And  more  than 
once  they  hurry  him  forward,   saying  "Passa!  passa!" 

There  is  a  strange  disappointment  in  these  cere- 
monies to  me,  and,  I  think,  often  to  him.  I  seem  to 
expect  so  much  more ,  —  not  more  pomp ,  of  that  there 
is  abundance-,  but  when  the  ceremony  itself  begins,  to 
which  all  the  pomp  of  music,  and  processions  of  ca- 
valiers, and  richly-robed  priests,  and  costly  shrines, 
are  mere  preliminary  accessories,  it  seems  often  so 
poor!  The  kernel  inside  all  this  gorgeous  shell  seems 
to  the  eye  of  sense  like  a  little  poor  withered  dust. 

To  the  eye  of  sense!  Yes,  I  forget.  These  are  the 
splendours  of  faith,  which  faith  only  can  behold. 

To-day  we  gazed  on  the  Veronica,  —  the  holy  im- 
pression left  by  our  Saviour's  face  on  the  cloth  St. 
Veronica  presented  to  him  to  wipe  his  brow,  bowed 
under  the  weight  of  the  cross.  We  had  looked  forward 
to  this  sight  for  days;  for  seven  thousand  years  of  in- 
dulgence from  penance  are  attached  to  it. 

But  when  the  moment  came  Brother  Martin  and  I 
could  see  nothing  but  a  black  board  hung  with  a  cloth, 
before  which  another  white  cloth  was  held.  In  a  few 
minutes  this  was  withdrawn,  and  the  great  moment 
was  over,  the  glimpse  of  the  sacred  thing  on  which 
hung  the  fate  of  seven  thousand  years!  For  some 
time  Brother  Martin  and  I  did  not  speak  of  it.  I 
feared  there  had  been  some  imperfection  in  my  looking, 
which  might  affect  the  seven  thousand  years;  but  ob- 
serving his  countenance  rather  downcast,  I  told  my 
difficulty,  and  found  that  he  also  had  seen  nothing  but 
a  white  cloth. 

The  skulls  of  St.  Peter  and  St.  Paul  perplexed  us 
still  more  because  they  had  so  much  the   appearance 


220     CHRONICLES   OF  THE  SCHONBERG-COTTA  FAMILY. 

of  being  carved  in  wood.  But  in  the  crowd  we  could 
not  approach  very  close;  and  doubtless  Satan  uses  de- 
vices to  blind  the  eyes  even  of  the  faithful. 

One  relic  excited  my  amazement  much  —  the  halter 
with  which  Judas  hanged  himself!  It  could  scarcely 
be  termed  a  holy  relic.  I  wonder  who  preserved  it, 
when  so  many  other  precious  things  are  lost.  Scarcely 
the  apostles-,  perhaps  the  scribes,  out  of  malice. 

The  Romans,  I  observe,  seem  to  care  little  for 
what  to  us  is  the  kernel  and  marrow  of  these  cere- 
monies —  the  exhibition  of  the  holy  relics.  They 
seem  more  occupied  in  comparing  the  pomp  of  one 
year,  or  of  one  church,  with  another. 

We  must  not,  I  suppose,  measure  the  good  things 
do  us  by  our  own  thoughts  and  feelings,  but  simply 
accept  it  on  the  testimony  of  the  Church. 

Otherwise  I  might  be  tempted  to  imagine  that  the 
relics  of  pagan  Rome  do  my  spirit  more  good  than 
gazing  on  the  sacred  ashes  or  bones  of  martyrs  or 
apostles.  When  I  walk  over  the  heaps  of  shapeless 
ruin,  so  many  feet  beneath  which  lies  buried  the 
grandeur  of  the  old  imperial  city;  or  when  I  wander 
among  the  broken  arches  of  the  gigantic  Coliseum, 
where  the  martyrs  fought  with  wild  beasts,  —  great 
thoughts  seem  to  grow  naturally  in  my  mind,  and  I 
feel  how  great  truth  is,  and  how  little  empires  are. 

I  see  an  empire  solid  as  this  Coliseum  crumble  into 
ruins  as  undistinguishable  as  the  dust  of  those  streets, 
before  the  word  of  that  once  despised  Jew  of  Tarsus, 
"in  bodily  presence  weak,"  who  was  beheaded  here. 
Or,  again,  in  the  ancient  Pantheon,  when  the  music 
of  Christian  chants  rises  among  the  shadowy  forms  of 
the  old  vanquished  gods  painted  on  the  walls,  and  the 


fritz's  story.  221 

light  streams  down,  not  from  painted  windows  in  the 
walls,  but  from  the  glowing  heavens  above,  every  note 
of  the  service  echoes  like  a  peal  of  triumph ,  and  fills 
my  heart  with  thankfulness. 

But  my  happiest  hours  here  are  spent  in  the  church 
of  my  patron,  St.  Sebastian,  without  the  walls,  built 
over  the  ancient  catacombs. 

Countless  martyrs,  they  say,  rest  in  peace  in  these 
ancient  sepulchres.  They  have  not  been  opened  for 
centuries;  but  they  are  believed  to  wind  in  subterranean 
passages  far  beneath  the  ancient  city.  In  those  dark 
depths  the  ancient  Church  took  refuge  from  persecu- 
tion; there  she  laid  her  martyrs;  and  there,  over  their 
tombs,  she  chanted  hymns  of  triumph,  and  held  com- 
munion with  Him  for  whom  they  died.  In  that  church 
I  spend  hours.  I  have  no  wish  to  descend  into  those 
sacred  sepulchres,  and  pry  among  the  graves  the  re- 
surrection trump  will  open  soon  enough.  I  like  to 
think  of  the  holy  dead,  lying  undisturbed  and  quiet 
there;  of  their  spirits  in  Paradise;  of  their  faith  triumph- 
ant in  the  city  which  massacred  them. 

No  doubt  they  also  had  their  perplexities,  and 
wondered  why  the  wicked  triumph,  and  sighed  to  God, 
"How  long,  0  Lord,  how  long?" 

And  yet  I  cannot  help  wishing  I  had  lived  and 
died  among  them,  and  had  not  been  born  in  times 
when  we  see  Satan  appear,  not  in  his  genuine  hideous- 
ness ,  but  as  an  angel  of  light. 

For  of  the  wickedness  that  prevails  in  this  Christian 
Eome,  alas,  who  can  speak!  of  the  shameless  sin,  the 
violence,  the  pride,  the  mockery  of  sacred  things! 

In  the  Coliseum,  in  the  Pantheon,  in  the  Church 
of  St.  Sebastian,  I  feel  an  atom  —  but  an  atom  in  a 


222     CHRONICLES   OP  THE  SCHONBERG-COTTA  FAMILY. 

solid,  God-governed  world,  where  truth  is  mightiest; 
—  insignificant  in  myself  as  the  little  mosses  which 
flutter  on  these  ancient  stones;  hut  yet  a  little  moss  on 
a  great  rock  which  cannot  be  shaken  —  the  rock  of 
God's  providence  and  love.  In  the  busy  city,  I  feel 
tossed  hither  and  thither  on  a  sea  which  seems  to  rage 
and  heave  at  its  own  wild  will,  without  aim  or  mean- 
ing —  a  sea  of  human  passion.  Among  the  ruins,  I 
commune  with  the  spirits  of  our  great  and  holy  dead, 
who  live  unto  God.  At  the  exhibition  of  the  sacred 
relics,  my  heart  is  drawn  down  to  the  mere  perishable 
dust,  decorated  with  the  miserable  pomps  of  the  little 
men  of  the  day. 

And  then  I  return  to  the  convent  and  reproach 
myself  for  censoriousness,  and  unbelief,  and  pride,  and 
try  to  remember  that  the  benefits  of  these  ceremonies 
and  exhibitions  are  only  to  be  understood  by  faith, 
and  are  not  to  be  judged  by  inward  feeling,  or  even 
by  their  moral  results. 

The  Church,  the  Holy  Father,  solemnly  declare 
that  pardons  and  blessings  incalculable,  to  ourselves 
and  others,  flow  from  so  many  Paternosters  and  Aves 
recited  at  certain  altars,  or  from  seeing  the  Veronica 
or  the  other  relics.  I  have  performed  the  acts,  and  I 
must  at  my  peril  believe  in  their  efficacy. 

But  Brother  Martin  and  I  are  often  sorely  dis- 
couraged at  the  wickedness  we  see  and  hear  around  us. 
A  few  days  since  he  was  at  a  feast  with  several  pre- 
lates and  great  men  of  the  Church,  and  the  fashion 
among  them  seemed  to  be  to  jest  at  all  that  is  most 
sacred.  Some  avowed  their  disbelief  in  one  portion  of 
the  faith,  and  some  in  others;  but  all  in  a  light  and 
laughing  way,  as  if  it  mattered  little  to  any  of  them. 


fritz's  story.  223 

One  present  related  how  they  sometimes  substituted  the 
words  pants  es,  et  panis  manebis  in  the  mass,  instead  of 
the  words  of  consecration,  and  then  amused  themselves 
with  watching  the  people  adore  what  was,  after  all,  no 
consecrated  Host,  but  a  mere  piece  of  bread. 

The  Romans  themselves  we  have  heard  declare, 
that  if  there  be  a  hell,  Eome  is  built  over  it.  They 
have  a  couplet,  — 

"Vivere  qui  sancte  vultis,  discedite  Roma: 
Omnia  hie  esse  licent,  non  licet  esse  probum."* 

0  Rome!  in  sacredness  as  Jerusalem,  in  wicked- 
ness as  Babylon,  how  bitter  is  the  conflict  that  breaks 
forth  in  the  heart  at  seeing  holy  places  and  holy 
character  thus  disjoined!  How  overwhelming  the 
doubts  that  rush  back  on  the  spirit  again  and  again, 
as  to  the  very  existence  of  holiness  or  truth  in  the 
universe,  when  we  behold  the  deeds  of  Satan  prevailing 
in  the  very  metropolis  of  the  kingdom  of  God! 

Rome,  August. 

Mechanically,  we  continue  to  go  through  every 
detail  of  the  prescribed  round  of  devotions,  believing 
against  experience,  and  hoping  against  hope. 

To-day  Brother  Martin  went  to  accomplish  the  as- 
cent of  the  Santa  Scala  —  the  Holy  Staircase  —  which 
once,  they  say,  formed  part  of  Pilate's  house.  I  had 
crept  up  the  sacred  steps  before,  and  stood  watching 
him  as,  on  his  knees,  he  slowly  mounted  step  after 
step  of  the  hard  stone,  worn  into  hollows,  by  the 
knees  of  penitents  and  pilgrims.     An  indulgence  for  a 

*  ("Ye  who   would  live   holily,    depart  from   Rome:    all  things  are 
allowed  here,  except  to  be  upright."] 


224     CHRONICLES   OF  THE  SCHONBERG-COTTA  FAMILY. 

thousand  years  —  indulgence  from  penance  —  is  at- 
tached to  this  act  of  devotion.  Patiently  he  crept  half 
way  up  the  staircase,  when,  to  my  amazement,  he  sud- 
denly stood  erect,  lifted  his  face  heavenward,  and,  in 
another  moment,  turned  and  walked  slowly  down 
again. 

He  seemed  absorbed  in  thought  when  he  rejoined 
me-,  and  it  was  not  until  some  time  afterwards  that  he 
told  me  the  meaning  of  this  sudden  abandonment  of 
his  purpose. 

He  said  that,  as  he  was  toiling  up,  a  voice,  as  if 
from  heaven,  seemed  to  whisper  to  him  the  old,  well- 
known  words,  which  had  been  his  battle-cry  in  so  many 
a  victorious  combat,  —  "The  just  shall  live  by  faith.'''1 

He  seemed  awakened,  as  if  from  a  nightmare,  and 
restored  to  himself.  He  dared  not  creep  up  another 
step-,  but,  rising  from  his  knees,  he  stood  upright,  like 
a  man  suddenly  loosed  from  bonds  and  fetters,  and, 
with  the  firm  step  of  a  freeman,  he  descended  the 
Staircase  and  walked  from  the  place. 

August  16i4. 

To-night  there  has  been  an  assassination.  A  corpse 
was  found  near  our  convent  gates,  pierced  with  many 
wounds.  But  no  one  seems  to  think  much  of  it.  Such 
things  are  constantly  occurring,  they  say,  and  the  only 
interest  seems  to  be  as  to  the  nature  of  the  quarrel 
which  led  to  it. 

"A  prelate  is  mixed  up  with  it,"  the  monks  whisper*, 
"one  of  the  late  Pope's  family.  It  will  not  be  in- 
vestigated." 

But  these  crimes  of  passion  seem  to  me  com- 
prehensible and  excusable,  compared  with  the  spirit  of 


fritz's  story.  225 

of  levity  and  mockery  which  pervades  all  classes.  In 
such  acts  of  revenge  you  see  human  nature  in  ruins; 
yet  in  the  ruins  you  can  trace  something  of  the  ancient 
dignity.  But  in  this  jesting,  scornful  spirit,  which 
mocks  at  sacredness  in  the  service  of  God,  at  virtue  in 
women,  and  at  truth  and  honour  in  men,  all  traces  of 
God's  image  seem  crushed  and  trodden  into  shapeless, 
incoherent  dust. 

From  such  thoughts  I  often  take  refuge  in  the 
Campagna,  and  feel  a  refreshment  in  its  desolate 
spaces,  its  solitary  wastes,  its  traces  of*  material  ruin. 

The  ruins  of  empires  and  of  imperial  edifices  do 
not  depress  me.  The  immortality  of  the  race  and  of 
the  soul  rises  grandly  in  contrast.  In  the  Campagna 
we  see  the  ruins  of  imperial  Rome;  but  in  Rome  we 
see  the  ruin  of  our  race  and  nature.  And  what  shall 
console  us  for  that,  when  the  presence  of  all  that  Christ- 
ians most  venerate  is  powerless  to  arrest  it? 

Were  it  not  for  some  memories  of  a  home  at 
Eisenach,  on  which  I  dare  not  dwell  too  much,  it  s.eems 
at  times  as  if  the  very  thought  of  purity  and  truth 
would  fade  from  my  heart. 

Rome,  August. 

Brother  Martin,  during  the  intervals  of  the  business 
of  his  Order,  which  is  slowly  winding  its  way  among 
the  intricacies  of  the  Roman  courts,  is  turning  his  at- 
tention to  the  study  of  Hebrew,  under  the  Rabbi  Elias 
Levita. 

I  study  also  with  the  Rabbi,  and  have  had  the  great 
benefit,  moreover,  of  hearing  lectures  from  the  Byzantine 
Greek  professor,  Argyropylos. 

Two   altogether  new  worlds  seem  to   open  to  me 

Schonberg-Cotta  Family.  I.  15 


226     CHRONICLES  OP  THE  SCHONBERG-COTTA  FAMILY. 

through  these  men,  —  one  in  the  far  distances  of  time, 
and  the  other  in  those  of  space. 

The  Eabbi,  one  of  the  race  which  is  a  by-word  and 
a  scorn  among  us  from  boyhood,  to  my  surprise  seems 
to  glory  in  his  nation  and  his  pedigree,  with  a  pride 
which  looks  down  on  the  antiquity  of  our  noblest 
lineages  as  mushrooms  of  a  day.  I  had  no  conception 
that  underneath  the  misery  and  the  obsequious  de- 
meanour of  the  Jews  such  lofty  feelings  existed.  And 
yet,  what  wonder  is  it!  Before  Rome  was  built,  Jeru- 
salem was  a  sacred  and  royal  city;  and  now  that  the 
empire  and  the  people  of  Rome  have  passed  for  centuries, 
this  nation,  fallen  before  their  prime,  still  exists  to  wit- 
ness their  fall. 

I  went  once  to  the  door  of  their  synagogue,  in  the 
Ghetto.  There  were  no  shrines  in  it,  no  altars,  no 
visible  symbols  of  sacred  things,  except  the  roll  of  the 
Law,  which  was  reverently  taken  out  of  a  sacred 
treasury  and  read  aloud.  Yet  there  seemed  something 
sublime  in  this  symbolizing  of  the  presence  of  God 
only  by  a  voice  reading  the  words  which,  ages  ago, 
He  spoke  to  their  prophets  in  the  Holy  Land. 

"Why  have  you  no  altar?"  I  asked  onoe  of  one 
of  the  Rabbis. 

"Our  altar  can  only  be  raised  when  our  temple  is 
built,"  was  the  reply.  "Our  temple  can  only  rise  in 
the  city  and  on  the  hill  of  our  God.  But,"  he  con- 
tinued, in  a  low,  bitter  tone,  "when  our  altar  and 
temple  are  restored,  it  will  not  be  to  offer  incense  to 
the  painted  image  of  a  Hebrew  maiden." 

I  have  thought  of  the  words  often  since.  But  were 
they  not  blasphemy?     I  must  not  dare  recall  them. 

But  those  Greeks!  they  are  Christians,  and  yet  not 


fritz's  story.  227 

of  our  communion.  As  Argyropylos  speaks,  I  under- 
stand for  the  first  time  that  a  Church  exists  in  the 
East,  as  ancient  as  the  Church  of  Western  Europe,  and 
as  extensive,  which  acknowledges  the  Holy  Trinity  and 
the  Creeds,  but  owns  no  allegiance  to  the  Holy  Father 
the  Pope. 

The  world  is  much  larger  and  older  than  Else  or 
I  thought  at  Eisenach.  May  not  God's  kingdom  be 
much  larger  than  some  think  at  Rome? 

In  the  presence  of  monuments  which  date  back  to 
days  before  Christianity,  and  of  men  who  speak  the 
language  of  Moses,  and,  with  slight  variations,  the  lan- 
guage of  Homer,  our  Germany  seems  in  its  infancy 
indeed.  Would  to  God  it  were  in  its  infancy,  and 
that  a  glorious  youth  and  prime  may  succeed,  when 
these  old,  decrepit  nations  are  worn  out  and  gone! 

Yet  Heaven  forbid  that  I  should  call  Rome  de- 
crepit —  Rome,  on  whose  brow  rests,  not  the  perishable 
crown  of  earthly  dominion,  but  the  tiara  of  the  king- 
dom of  God. 

September. 

The  mission  which  brought  Brother  Martin  hither 
is  nearly  accomplished.  We  shall  soon  —  we  may  at 
a  day's  notice  —  leave  Rome  and  return  to  Germany. 

And  what  have  we  gained  by  our  pilgrimage? 

A  store  of  indulgences  beyond  calculation.  And 
knowledge;  eyes  opened  to  see  good  and  evil.  En- 
nobling knowledge !  glimpses  into  rich  worlds  of  human 
life  and  thought,  which  humble  the  heart  in  expanding 
the  mind.  Bitter  knowledge !  illusions  dispelled,  aspira- 
tions crushed.  We  have  learned  that  the  heart  of 
Christendom  is  a  moral  plague-spot;  that  spiritual 
privileges  and  moral  goodness  have  no  kind  of  connec- 

15* 


228     CHRONICLES  OF  THE  SCHONBERG-COTTA  FAMILY. 

tion,  because  where  the  former  are  at  the  highest  per- 
fection, the  latter  is  at  the  lowest  point  of  degradation. 

We  have  learned  that  on  earth  there  is  no  place  to 
which  the  heart  can  turn  as  a  sanctuary,  if  by  a  sanc- 
tuary we  mean  not  merely  a  refuge  from  the  punish- 
ment of  sin,  but  a  place  in  which  to  grow  holy. 

In  one  sense,  Rome  may,  indeed,  be  called  the 
sanctuary  of  the  world!  It  seems  as  if  half  the  criminals 
in  the  world  had  found  a  refuge  here. 

When  I  think  of  Eome  in  future  as  a  city  of  the 
living,  I  shall  think  of  assassination,  treachery,  avarice, 
a  spirit  of  universal  mockery,  which  seems  only  the 
foam  over  an  abyss  of  universal  despair-,  mockery  of 
all  virtue,  based  on  disbelief  in  all  truth. 

It  is  only  as  a  city  of  the  dead  that  my  heart  will 
revert  to  Rome  as  a  holy  place.  She  has  indeed  built, 
and  built  beautifully,  the  sepulchres  of  the  prophets. 

Those  hidden  catacombs,  where  the  holy  dead  rest, 
far  under  the  streets  of  the  city,  —  too  far  for  traf- 
fickers in  sacred  bones  to  disturb  them,  —  among  these 
the  imagination  can  rest,  like  those  beatified  ones,  in 
peace. 

The  spiritual  life  of  Rome  seems  to  be  among  her 
dead.  Among  the  living  all  seems  spiritual  corruption 
and  death. 

May  God  and  the  saints  have  mercy  on  me  if  I 
say  what  is  sinful.  Does  not  the  scum  necessarily  rise 
to  the  surface?  Do  not  acts  of  violence  and  words  of 
mockery  necessarily  make  more  noise  in  the  world  than 
prayers?  How  do  I  know  how  many  humble  hearts 
there  are  in  tbose  countless  convents  there,  that  secretly 
offer  acceptable  incense  to  God,  and  keep  the  perpetual 
lamp  of  devotion  burning  in  the  sight  of  God? 


fritz's  story.  229 

How  do  I  know  what  deeper  and  better  thoughts 
lie  hidden  under  that  veil  of  levity?  Only  I  often  feel 
that  if  God  had  not  made  me  a  believer  through  his 
word,  by  the  voice  of  Brother  Martin  in  the  Black 
Forest,  Rome  might  too  easily  have  made  me  an  in- 
fidel. And  it  is  certainly  true,  that  to  be  a  Christian 
at  Rome  as  well  as  elsewhere,  (indeed,  more  than  else- 
where) one  must  breast  the  tide,  and  must  walk  by 
faith,  and  not  by  sight. 

But  we  have  performed  the  pilgrimage.  We  have 
conscientiously  visited  all  the  shrines;  we  have  recited 
as  many  as  possible  of  the  privileged  acts  of  devotion, 
Paters  and  Aves,  at  the  privileged  shrines. 

Great  benefits  must  result  to  us  from  these  things. 

But  benefits  of  what  kind  ?  Moral  ?  How  can  that 
be  ?  When  shall  I  efface  from  my  memory  the  polluting 
words  and  works  I  have  seen  and  heard  at  Rome? 
Spiritual?  Scarcely,  if  by  spiritual  we  are  to  under- 
stand a  devout  mind,  joy  in  God,  and  nearness  to  him. 
When,  since  that  night  in  the  Black  Forest,  have  I 
found  prayer  so  difficult,  doubts  so  overwhelming,  the 
thoughts  of  God  and  heaven  so  dim,  as  at  Rome  ? 

The  benefits,  then,  that  we  have  received,  must  be 
ecclesiastical,  —  those  that  the  Church  promises  and 
dispenses.  And  what  are  these  ecclesiastical  benefits? 
Pardon?  But  is  it  not  written  that  God  gives  this 
freely  to  those  who  believe  on  his  Son?  Peace?  But 
is  not  that  the  legacy  of  the  Saviour  to  all  who  love 
him? 

What  then?  Indulgences.  Indulgences  from  what? 
From  the  temporal  consequences  of  sin  ?  Too  obviously 
not  these.  Do  the  ecclesiastical  indulgences  save  men 
from  disease,  and  sorrow,  and  death?    Is  it,  then,  from 


230     CHRONICLES   OF  THE  SCHONBERQ-COTTA  FAMILY. 

the  eternal  consequences  of  sin  ?  Did  not  the  Lamb  of 
God,  dying  for  us  on  the  cross,  hear  our  sins  there, 
and  blot  them  out?  What  then  remains,  which  the  in- 
dulgences can  deliver  from  ?  Penance  and  purgatory. 
What  then  are  penance  and  purgatory  ?  Has  penance 
in  itself  no  curative  effect,  that  we  can  be  healed  of 
our  sins  by  escaping  as  well  as  by  performing  it? 
Have  purgatorial  fires  no  purifying  power,  that  we  can 
be  purified  as  much  by  repeating  a  few  words  of  de- 
votion at  certain  altars  as  by  centuries  of  agony  in  the 
flames  ? 

All  these  questions  rise  before  me  from  time  to 
time ,  and  I  find  no  reply.  If  I  mention  them  to  my 
confessor,  he  says,  — 

"These  are  temptations  of  the  Devil.  You  must 
not  listen  to  them.  They  are  vain  and  presumptuous 
questions.  There  are  no  keys  on  earth  to  open  these 
doors." 

Are  there  any  keys  on  earth  to  loch  them  again, 
when  once  they  have  been  opened  ? 

"You  Germans,"  others  of  the  Italian  priests  say, 
"take  everything  with  such  desperate  seriousness.  It 
is  probably  owing  to  your  long  winters  and  the  heavi- 
ness of  your  northern  climate,  which  must,  no  doubt, 
be  very  depressing  to  the  spirits." 

Holy  Mary !  and  these  Italians,  if  life  is  so  light  a 
matter  to  them,  will  not  they  also  have  one  day  to 
take  death  "with  desperate  seriousness,"  and  judgment 
and  eternity,  although  there  will  be  no  long  winters,  I 
suppose,  and  no  heavy  northern  climate,  to  depress  the 
spirits  in  that  other  world. 

We  are  going  back  to  Germany  at  last.  Strangely 
has  the  world  enlarged  to  me  since  we  came  here.    We 


fritz's  story.  231 

are  accredited  pilgrims;  we  have  performed  every  pre- 
scribed duty,  and  availed  ourselves  of  every  proffered 
privilege.  And  yet  it  is  not  because  of  tbe  regret  of 
quitting  tbe  Holy  City  tbat  our  bearts  are  full  of  tbe 
gravest  melancholy  as  we  turn  away  from  Eome. 

"When  I  compare  the  recollections  of  this  Rome 
with  those  of  a  home  at  Eisenach,  I  am  tempted  in  my 
heart  to  feel  as  if  Germany,  and  not  Rome,  were  the 
Holy  Place,  and  our  pilgrimage  were  beginning,  instead 
of  ending,  as  we  turn  our  faces  northward ! 


232     CHRONICLES  OF  THE  SCHONBERG-COTTA  FAMILY. 


XI. 

eva's  story. 

Cistercian  Convent,  Nimptschen,  1511. 

Life  cannot,  at  the  utmost,  last  very  long,  although 
at  seventeen  we  may  be  tempted  to  think  the  way  be- 
tween us  and  heaven  interminable. 

For  the  convent  is  certainly  not  heaven-,  I  never 
expected  it  would  be.  It  is  not  nearly  so  much  like 
heaven ,  I  think ,  as  Aunt  Cotta's  home ;  because  love 
seems  to  me  to  be  the  essential  joy  of  heaven,  and 
there  is  more  love  in  that  home  than  here. 

I  am  not  at  all  disappointed.  I  did  not  expect  a 
haven  of  rest,  but  only  a  sphere  where  I  might  serve 
God  better,  and,  at  all  events,  not  be  a  burden  on  dear 
Aunt  Cotta.  For  I  feel  sure  Uncle  Cotta  will  become 
blind;  and  they  have  so  much  difficulty  to  struggle  on, 
as  it  is. 

And  the  world  is  full  of  dangers  for  a  young 
orphan  girl  like  me ;  and  I  am  afraid  they  might  want 
me  to  marry  some  one,  which  I  never  could. 

I  have  no  doubt  God  will  give  me  some  work  to 
do  for  him  here,  and  that  is  all  the  happiness  I  look 
for.  Not  that  I  think  there  are  not  other  kinds  of 
happiness  in  the  world  which  are  not  wrong;  but  they 
are  not  for  me. 

I  shall  never  think  it  was  wrong  to  love  them  all 
at  Eisenach  as  much  as  I  did,  and  do,  whatever  the 
confessor  may  say.  I  shall  be  better  all  my  life,  and 
all  the  life  beyond,   I  believe,  for  the  love  God  gave 


eva's  story.  233 

them  for  me,  and  me  for  them,  and  for  having  known 
Cousin  Fritz.  I  wish  very  much  he  would  write  to 
me ;  and  sometimes  I  think  I  will  write  to  him.  I  feel 
sure  it  would  do  us  both  good.  He  always  said  it  did 
him  good  to  talk  and  read  the  dear  old  Latin  hymns 
with  me ;  and  I  know  they  never  seemed  more  real 
and  true  than  when  I  sang  them  to  him.  But  the 
father  confessor  says  it  would  be  exceedingly  perilous 
for  our  souls  to  hold  such  a  correspondence ;  and  he 
asked  me  if  I  did  not  think  more  of  my  cousin  than 
of  the  hymns  when  I  sang  them  to  him,  which,  he 
says,  would  have  been  a  great  sin.  I  am  sure  I  can- 
not tell  exactly  how  the  thoughts  were  balanced,  or 
from  what  source  each  drop  of  pleasure  flowed.  It 
was  all  blended  together.  It  was  joy  to  sing  the 
hymns,  and  it  was  joy  for  Fritz  to  like  to  hear  them-, 
and  where  one  joy  overflowed  into  the  other  I  cannot 
tell.  I  believe  God  gave  me  both;  and  I  do  not  see 
that  I  need  care  to  divide  one  from  the  other.  Who 
cares,  when  the  Elbe  is  flowing  past  its  willows  and 
oaks  at  Wittenberg,  which  part  of  its  waters  was  dis- 
solved by  the  sun  from  the  pure  snows  on  the  moun- 
tains, and  which  came  trickling  from  some  little  humble 
spring  on  the  sandy  plains  ?  Both  springs  and  snows 
came  originally  from  the  clouds  above;  and  both,  as 
they  flow  blended  on  together,  make  the  grass  spring 
and  the  leaf-buds  swell,  and  all  the  world  rejoice. 

The  heart  with  which  we  love  each  other  and  with 
which  we  love  God,  is  it  not  the  same?  Only  God  is 
all  good,  and  we  are  all  His,  therefore  we  should  love 
Him  best.  I  think  I  do,  or  I  should  be  more  desolate 
here  than  I  am,  away  from  all  but  him. 

That  is  what  I  understand  by  my  "Theologia  Ger- 


234     CHRONICLES   OP  THE  SCHONBERGCOTTA  FAMILY. 

manica,"  which  Else  does  not  like.  I  begin  with  my 
father's  legacy  —  "God  so  loved  the  world,  that  he 
gave  his  Son;1'  and  then  I  think  of  the  crucifix,  and 
of  the  love  of  Him  who  died  for  us;  and,  in  the  light 
of  these,  I  love  to  read  in  my  book  of  Him  who  is  the 
Supreme  Goodness,  whose  will  is  our  rest,  and  who  is 
himself  the  joy  of  all  our  joys,  and  our  joy  when  we 
have  no  other  joy.  The  things  I  do  not  comprehend 
in  the  hook,  I  leave,  like  so  many  other  things.  I  am 
hut  a  poor  girl  of  seventeen,  and  how  can  I  expect  to 
understand  everything  ?  Only  I  never  let  the  things  I 
do  not  understand  perplex  me  about  those  I  do. 

Therefore,  when  my  confessor  told  me  to  examine 
my  heart,  and  see  if  there  were  not  wrong  and  idola- 
trous thoughts  mixed  up  with  my  love  for  them  all  at 
Eisenach,  I  said  at  once,  looking  up  at  him  — 

"Yes,  father,  I  did  not  love  them  half  enough,  for 
all  their  love  to  me." 

I  think  he  must  have  been  satisfied;  for  although 
he  looked  perplexed,  he  did  not  ask  me  any  more  ques- 
tions. 

I  feel  very  sorry  for  many  of  the  nuns,  especially 
for  the  old  nuns.  They  seem  to  me  like  children,  and 
yet  not  child-like.  The  merest  trifles  appear  to  excite 
or  trouble  them.  They  speak  of  the  convent  as  if  it 
were  the  world,  and  of  the  world  as  if  it  were  hell. 
It  is  a  childhood  Avith  no  hope,  no  youth  and  woman- 
hood before  it.  It  reminds  me  of  the  stunted  oaks  we 
passed  on  Diiben  Heath ,  between  Wittenberg  and 
Leipsic,  which  will  never  be  full-grown,  and  yet  are 
not  saplings. 

Then  there  is  one,  Sister  Beatrice,  whom  the  nuns 
seem  to  think  very  inferior  to  themselves,  because  they 


eva's  story.  235 

say  she  was  forced  into  the  convent  by  her  relatives, 
to  prevent  her  marrying  some  one  they  did  not  like, 
and  could  never  be  induced  to  take  the  vows  until  her 
lover  died, , —  which,  they  say,  is  hardly  worthy  of  the 
name  of  a  vocation  at  all. 

She  does  not  seem  to  think  so  either,  but  moves 
about  in  a  subdued,  broken-spirited  way,  as  if  she  felt 
herself  a  creature  belonging  neither  to  the  Church  nor 
to  the  world. 

The  other  evening  she  had  been  on  an  errand  for 
the  prioress  through  the  snow,  and  returned  blue  with 
cold.  She  had  made  some  mistake  in  the  message,  and 
was  ordered  at  once,  with  contemptuous  words,  to  her 
cell,  to  finish  a  penance  by  reciting  certain  prayers. 

I  could  not  help  following  her.  When  I  found  her, 
she  was  sitting  on  her  pallet  shivering,  with  the  prayer- 
book  before  her.  I  crept  into  the  cell,  and,  sitting 
down  beside  her,  began  to  chafe  her  poor  icy  hands. 

At  first  she  tried  to  withdraw  them,  murmuring  that 
she  had  a  penance  to  perform;  and  then  her  eyes  wan- 
dered from  the  book  to  mine.  She  gazed  wonderingly 
at  me  for  some  moments,  and  then  she  burst  into  tears, 
and  said,  — 

"Ob,  do  not  do  that!  It  makes  me  think  of  the  old 
nursery  at  home.  And  my  mother  is  dead;  all  are  dead, 
and  I  cannot  die." 

She  let  me  put  my  arms  round  her,  however;  and, 
in  faint,  broken  words,  the  whole  history  came  out. 

"I  am  not  here  from  choice,"  she  said.  "I  should 
never  have  been  here  if  my  mother  had  not  died ;  and  I 
should  never  have  taken  the  vows  if  he  had  not  died, 
whatever  they  had  done  to  me;  for  we  were  betrothed, 
and  we  had  vowed  before  God  we  would   be  true  to 


236     CHRONICLES  OF  THE  SCHONBERG-COTTA  FAMILY. 

each  other  till  death.  And  why  is  not  one  vow  as  good 
as  another?  When  they  told  me  he  was  dead,  I  took 
the  vows  —  or,  at  least,  I  let  them  put  the  veil  on  me, 
and  said  the  words  as  I  was  told,  after  the  priest;  for 
I  did  not  care  what  I  did.  And  so  I  am  a  nun.  I 
have  no  wish  now  to  he  anything  else.  But  it  will  do 
me  no  good  to  he  a  nun,  for  I  loved  Eberhard  first, 
and  I  loved  him  best;  and  now  that  he  is  dead,  I  love 
no  one,  and  have  no  hope  in  heaveu  or  earth.  I  try, 
indeed ,  not  to  think  of  him ,  because  they  say  that  is 
sin;  but  I  cannot  think  of  happiness  without  him,  if  I 
try  for  ever." 

I  said,  "I  do  not  think  it  is  wrong  for  you  to  think 
of  him." 

Her  face  brightened  for  an  instant,  and  then  she 
shook  her  head,  and  said,  — 

"Ah,  you  are  a  child;  you  are  an  angel.  You  do 
not  know."  And  then  she  began  to  weep  again,  but 
more  quietly.  "I  wish  you  had  seen  him;  then  you 
would  understand  better.  It  was  not  wrong  for  me  to 
love  him  once;  and  he  was  so  different  from  every  one 
else  —  so  true  and  gentle,  and  so  brave." 

I  listened  while  she  continued  to  speak  of  him;  and 
at  last,  looking  wistfully  at  me,  she  said,  in  a  low, 
timid  voice,  "I  cannot  help  trusting  you."  And  she 
drew  from  inside  a  fold  of  her  robe  a  little  piece  of 
yellow  paper,  with  a  few  words  written  on  it,  in  pale 
faded  ink,  and  a  lock  of  brown  hair. 

"Do  you  think  it  is  very  wrong?"  she  asked.  "I 
have  never  told  the  confessor,  because  I  am  not  quite 
sure  if  it  is  a  sin  to  keep  it;  and  I  am  quite  sure  the 
sisters  would  take  it  from  me  if  they  knew.  Do  you 
think  it  is  wrong?" 


eva's  story.  237 

The  words  were  very  simple  —  expressions  of  un- 
changeable affection ,  and  a  prayer  that  God  would 
bless  her  and  keep  them  for  each  other  till  better 
times. 

I  could  not  speak,  I  felt  so  sorry;  and  she  mur- 
mured, nervously  taking  her  poor  treasures  from  my 
hands,  "You  do  not  think  it  right.  But  you  will  not 
tell?  Perhaps  one  day  I  shall  be  better,  and  be  able 
to  give  them  up;  but  not  yet.     I  have  nothing  else." 

Then  I  tried  to  tell  her  that  she  had  something  else; 
—  that  God  loved  her  and  had  pity  on  her,  and 
that  perhaps  He  was  only  answering  the  prayer  of  her 
betrothed,  and  guarding  them  in  His  blessed  keeping 
until  they  should  meet  in  better  times.  At  length  she 
seemed  to  take  comfort;  and  I  knelt  down  with  her, 
and  we  said  together  the  prayers  she  had  been  com- 
manded to  recite. 

When  I  rose,  she  said  thoughtfully,  "You  seem 
to  pray  as  if  some  one  in  heaven  really  listened  and 
cared." 

"Yes,"  I  said;  "God  does  listen  and  care." 

"Even  to  me?"  she  asked;  "even  for  me?  Will 
he  not  despise  me,  like  the  holy  sisterhood?" 

"He  scorns  no  one;  and  they  say  the  lowest  are 
nearest  Him,  the  Highest." 

"  I  can  certainly  never  be  anything  but  the  lowest," 
she  said.  "It  is  fit  no  one  here  should  think  much  of 
me,  for  I  have  only  given  the  refuse  of  my  life  to  God. 
And  besides,  I  had  never  much  power  to  think;  and 
the  little  I  had  seems  gone  since  Eberhard  died.  I  had 
only  a  little  power  to  love;  and  I  thought  that  was  dead. 
But  since  you  came,  I  begin  to  think  I  might  yet  love 
a  little." 


238     CHRONICLES   OF  THE  SCHONBERG-COTTA  FAMILY. 

As  I  left  the  cell  she  called  me  hack. 

"What  shall  I  do  when  my  thoughts  wander,  as 
they  always  do  in  the  long  prayers?"  she  asked. 

"Make  shorter  prayers,  I  think,  oftener,"  I  said, 
"I  think  that  would  please  God  as  much." 

August  1511. 

The  months  pass  on  very  much  the  same  here*,  hut 
I  do  not  find  them  monotonous.  I  am  permitted  by  the 
prioress  to  wait  on  the  sick,  and  also  often  to  teach  the 
younger  novices.  This  little  world  grows  larger  to  me 
every  week.  It  is  a  world  of  human  hearts,  —  and 
what  a  world  there  is  in  every  heart! 

For  instance,  Aunt  Agnes!  I  begin  now  to  know 
her.  All  the  sisterhood  look  up  to  her  as  almost  a  saint 
already.  But  I  do  not  believe  she  thinks  so  herself. 
For  many  months  after  I  entered  the  cloister  she  scarce- 
ly seemed  to  notice  me ;  but  last  week  she  brought  her- 
self into  a  low  fever  by  the  additional  fasts  and  sever- 
ities she  has  been  imposing  on  herself  lately. 

It  was  my  night  to  watch  in  the  infirmary  when  she 
became  ill. 

At  first  she  seemed  to  shrink  from  receiving  any- 
thing at  my  hands. 

"Can  they  not  send  any  one  else?"  she  asked 
sternly. 

"It  is  appointed  to  me,"  I  said,  "in  the  order  of 
the  sisterhood." 

She  bowed  her  head,  and  made  no  further  opposi- 
tion to  my  nursing  her.  And  it  was  very  sweet  to  me, 
because  in  spite  of  all  the  settled,  grave  impassiveness 
of  her  countenance,  I  could  not  help  seeing  something 
there  which  recalled  dear  Aunt  Cotta. 


eva's  story.  239 

She  spoke  to  me  very  little;  but  I  felt  her  large 
deep  eyes  following  me  as  I  stirred  little  concoctions 
of  herbs  on  the  fire,  or  crept  softly  about  the  room. 
Towards  morning  she  said,  "Child,  you  are  tired  — 
come  and  lie  down;"  and  she  pointed  to  a  little  bed 
beside  her  own. 

Peremptory  as  were  the  words,  there  was  a  tone  in 
them  different  from  the  usual  metallic  firmness  in  her 
voice  —  which  froze  Else's  heart  —  a  tremulousness 
which  was  almost  tender.  I  could  not  resist  the  com- 
mand, especially  as  she  said  she  felt  much  better;  and 
in  a  few  minutes,   bad  nurse  that  I  was,   I  fell  asleep. 

How  long  I  slept  I  know  not,  but  I  was  awakened 
by  a  slight  movement  in  the  room,  and  looking  up, 
I  saw  Aunt  Agnes's  bed  empty.  In  my  first  moments 
of  bewildered  terror  I  thought  of  arousing  the  sisterhood, 
when  I  noticed  that  the  door  of  the  infirmary  which 
opened  on  the  gallery  of  the  chapel  was  slightly  ajar. 
Softly  I  stole  towards  it,  and  there,  in  the  front  of  the 
gallery,  wrapped  in  a  sheet,  knelt  Aunt  Agnes,  looking 
more  than  ever  like  the  picture  of  death  which  she 
always  recalled  to  Else.  Her  lips ,  which  were  as 
bloodless  as  her  face,  moved  with  passionate  rapidity; 
her  thin  hands  feebly  counted  the  black  beads  of  her 
rosary;  and  her  eyes  were  fixed  on  a  picture  of  the 
Mater  Dolorosa  with  the  seven  swords  in  her  heart,  over 
one  of  the  altars.  There  was  no  impassiveness  in  the 
poor  sharp  features  and  trembling  lips  then.  Her  whole 
soul  seemed  going  forth  in  an  agonized  appeal  to  that 
pierced  heart;  and  I  heard  her  murmur,  "In  vain! 
Holy  Virgin,  plead  for  me!  it  has  been  all  in  vain. 
The  flesh  is  no  more  dead  in  me  than  the  first  day. 
That  child's  face  and  voice  stir  my  heart  more  than  all 


240     CHRONICLES  OP  THE  SCHONBERG-COTTA  FAMILY. 

thy  sorrows.  This  feeble  tie  of  nature  has  more  power 
in  me  than  all  the  relationships  of  the  heavenly  city. 
It  has  been  in  vain,  —  all,  all  in  vain.  I  cannot 
quench  the  fires  of  earth  in  my  heart." 

I  scarcely  ventured  to  interrupt  her,  hut  as  she 
bowed  her  head  on  her  hands,  and  fell  almost  prostrate 
on  the  floor  of  the  chapel,  while  her  whole  frame 
heaved  with  repressed  sobs,  I  went  forward  and  gently 
lifted  her,  saying,  "Sister  Agnes,  I  am  responsible  for 
the  sick  to-night.     You  must  come  back." 

She  did  not  resist.  A  shudder  passed  through  her; 
then  the  old  stony  look  came  back  to  her  face,  more 
rigid  than  ever,  and  she  suffered  me  to  wrap  her  up  in 
the  bed,  and  give  her  a  warm  drink. 

I  do  not  know  whether  she  suspects  that  I  heard 
her.  She  is  more  reserved  with  me  than  ever;  but  to 
me  those  resolute,  fixed  features,  and  that  hard,  firm 
voice,  will  never  more  be  what  they  were  before. 

No  wonder  that  the  admiration  of  the  sisterhood 
has  no  power  to  elate  Aunt  Agnes,  and  that  their  wish 
to  elect  her  sub-prioress  had  no  seduction  for  her.  She 
is  striving  in  her  inmost  soul  after  an  ideal,  which, 
could  she  reach  it,  what  would  she  be? 

As  regards  all  human  feeling  and  earthly  life, 
dead! 

And  just  as  she  hoped  this  was  attained,  a  voice  — 
a  poor,  friendly  child's  voice  —  falls  on  her  ear,  and 
she  finds  that  what  she  deemed  death  was  only  a  dream 
in  an  undisturbed  slumber,  and  that  the  whole  work 
has  to  begin  again. 

It  is  a  fearful  combat,  this  concentrating  all  the 
powers  of  life  on  producing  death  in  life. 

Can  this  be  what  God  means? 


eva's  story.  241 

Thank  God,  at  least,  that  my  vocation  is  lower. 
The  humbling  work  in  the  infirmary,  and  the  trials  of 
temper  in  the  school  of  the  novices ,  seem  to  teach  me 
more,  and  to  make  me  feel  that  I  am  nothing  and  have 
nothing  in  myself,  more  than  all  my  efforts  to  feel 
nothing. 

My  "Theologia"  says,  indeed,  that  true  self-abnega- 
tion is  freedom;  and  freedom  cannot  be  attained  until 
we  are  above  the  fear  of  punishment  or  the  hope  of 
reward.  Else  cannot  bear  this-,  and  when  I  spoke  of 
it  the  other  day  to  poor  Sister  Beatrice,  she  said  it  be- 
wildered her  poor  brain  altogether  to  think  of  it.  But 
I  do  not  take  it  in  that  sense.  I  think  it  must  mean 
that  love  is  its  own  reward;  and  grieving  Him  we  love, 
who  has  so  loved  us,  our  worst  punishment.  And  that 
seems  to  me  quite  true. 


Schonberg-Cotta  Family,   i.  lu 


242     CHRONICLES  OF  THE  SCHONBERG-COTTA  FAMILY. 


XII. 

else's  story. 

Wittenberg,  June  454%. 

Our  Eva  seems  happy  at  the  convent.  She  has 
taken  the  vows,  and  is  now  finally  Sister  Ave.  She 
has  also  sent  us  some  eye-water  for  the  father.  But  in 
spite  of  all  we  can  do  his  sight  seems  failing. 

In  some  way  or  other  I  think  my  father's  loss  of 
sight  has  brought  blessing  to  the  family. 

Our  grandmother,  who  is  very  feeble  now,  and 
seldom  leaves  her  chair  by  the  stove,  has  become  much 
more  tolerant  of  his  schemes  since  there  is  no  chance 
of  their  being  carried  out,  and  listens  with  remarkable 
patience  to  his  statements  of  the  wonders  he  would 
have  achieved  had  his  sight  only  been  continued  a  few 
years. 

Nor  does  the  father  himself  seem  as  much  dejected 
as  one  would  have  expected. 

When  I  was  comforting  him  to-day  by  saying  how 
much  less  anxious  our  mother  looks,  he  replied,  — 

"Yes,  my  child,  the  praeter  pluperfect  subjunctive 
is  a  more  comfortable  tense  to  live  in  than  the  future 
subjunctive,  for  any  length  of  time." 

I  looked  perplexed,  and  he  explained,  — 

"It  is  easier,  when  once  one  has  made  up  one's 
mind  to  it,  to  say,  'Had  I  had  this  I  might  have  done 
that,'  than,  'If  I  can  have  this  I  shall  do  that,'  —  at 
least  it  is  easier  to  the  anxious  and  excitable  feminine 
mind." 


else's  story.  243 

"But  to  you,  father?" 

"To  me  it  is  a  consolation  at  last  to  be  appreciated. 
£ven  your  grandmother  understands  at  length  how- 
great  the  results  would  have  been  if  I  could  only  have 
had  eye-sight  to  perfect  that  last  invention  for  using 
steam  to  draw  water." 

Our  grandmother  must  certainly  have  put  great 
restraint  on  her  usually  frank  expression  of  opinion,  if 
she  has  led  our  father  to  believe  she  had  any  con- 
fidence in  that  last  scheme;  for,  I  must  confess,  that 
of  all  our  father's  inventions  and  discoveries,  the  whole 
family  consider  this  idea  about  the  steam  the  wildest 
and  most  impracticable  of  all.  The  secret  of  perpetual 
motion  might,  no  doubt,  be  discovered,  and  a  clock  be 
constructed  which  would  never  need  winding  up,  —  I 
see  no  great  difficulty  in  that.  It  might  be  quite  pos- 
sible to  transmute  lead  into  gold,  or  iron  into  silver,  if 
one  could  find  exactly  the  right  proportions.  My  father 
has  explained  all  that  to  me  quite  clearly.  The  elixir 
which  would  prolong  life  indefinitely  seems  to  me  a 
little  more  difficult;  but  this  notion  of  pumping  up 
water  by  means  of  the  steam  which  issues  from  boiling 
water  and  disperses  in  an  instant,  we  all  agree  in 
thinking  quite  visionary,  and  out  of  the  question;  so 
that  it  is,  perhaps,  as  well  our  poor  father  should  not 
have  thrown  away  any  more  expense  or  time  on  it. 
Besides,  we  had  already  had  two  or  three  explosions 
from  his  experiments ;  and  some  of  the  neighbours  were 
beginning  to  say  very  unpleasant  things  about  the 
black  art,  and  witchcraft;  so  that  on  the  whole,  no 
doubt,  it  is  all  for  the  best. 

I  would  not,  however,  for  the  world,  have  hinted 
this  to  him;  therefore  I  only  replied,  evasively,  — 

16* 


244     CHRONICLES   OP  THE   SCHONBERG-COTTA  FAMILY. 

"Our  grandmother  has  indeed  been  much  gentler 
and  more  placid  lately." 

"It  is  not  only  that,"  he  rejoined;  "she  has  an  in- 
telligence far  superior  to  that  of  most  women,  —  she 
comprehends.  And  then,"  he  continued,  "I  am  not 
without  hopes  that  that  young  nobleman,  Ulrich  von 
Gersdorf,  who  comes  here  so  frequently  and  asks  about 
Eva,  may  one  day  carry  out  my  schemes.  He  and 
Chriemhild  begin  to  enter  into  the  idea  quite  intelli- 
gently. Besides,  there  is  Master  Reichenbach,  the  rich 
merchant  to  whom  your  Aunt  Cotta  introduced  us-,  he 
has  money  enough  to  carry  things  out  in  the  best  style. 
He  certainly  does  not  promise  much,  but  he  is  an  in- 
telligent listener,  and  that  is  a  great  step.  Gottfried 
Reichenbach  is  an  enlightened  man  for  a  merchant, 
although  he  is,  perhaps,  rather  slow  in  comprehension, 
and  a  little  over-cautious." 

"He  is  not  over-cautious  in  his  alms,  father,"  I 
said-,  "at  least  Dr.  Martin  Luther  says  so." 

"Perhaps  not,"  he  said.  "On  the  whole,  certainly, 
the  citizens  of  Wittenberg  are  very  superior  to  those 
of  Eisenach,  who  were  incredulous  and  dull  to  the  last 
degree.  It  will  be  a  great  thing  if  Reichenbach  and 
von  Gersdorf  take  up  this  invention.  Reichenbach  can 
introduce  it  at  once  among  the  patrician  families  of  the 
great  cities  with  whom  he  is  connected,  and  von  Gers- 
dorf would  promote  it  among  his  kindred  knights.  It 
would  not,  indeed,  be  such  an  advantage  to  our  family 
as  if  Pollux  and  Christopher,  or  our  poor  Fritz,  had 
carried  it  out.  But  never  mind,  Else,  my  child,  we 
were  children  of  Adam  before  we  were  Cottas.  We 
must  think  not  only  of  the  family,  but  of  the  world." 

Master  Reichenbach,  indeed,   may  take  a  genuine 


else's  story.  245 

interest  in  my  father's  plans,  but  I  have  suspicions  of 
Ulrich  von  Gersdorf.  He  seems  to  me  far  more  in- 
terested in  Chriemhild's  embroidery  than  in  our  father's 
steam-pump-,  and  although  he  continues  to  talk  of  Eva 
as  if  he  thought  her  an  angel,  he  certainly  sometimes 
looks  at  Chriemhild  as  if  he  thought  her  a  creature  as 
interesting. 

I  do  not  like  such  transitions;  and,  besides,  his 
conversation  is  so  very  different,  in  my  opinion,  from 
Master  Reichenbach's.  Ulrich  von  Gersdorf  has  no  ex- 
perience of  life  beyond  a  boar- hunt,  a  combat  with 
some  rival  knights,  or  a  foray  on  some  defenceless 
merchants.  His  life  has  been  passed  in  the  castle  of 
an  uncle  of  his  in  the  Thuringian  forest;  yet  I  cannot 
wonder  that  Chriemhild  listens,  with  a  glow  of  interest 
on  her  face,  as  she  sits  with  her  eyes  bent  on  her 
embroidery,  to  his  stories  of  ambushes  and  daring  sur- 
prises. But  to  me  this  life  seems  rude  and  lawless. 
Ulrich's  uncle  was  unmarried;  and  they  had  no  ladies 
in  the  castle  except  a  widowed  aunt  of  Ulrich's,  who 
seems  to  be  as  proud  as  Lucifer,  and  especially  to  pride 
herself  on  being  able  to  wear  pearls  and  velvet,  which 
no  burgher's  wife  may  appear  in. 

Ulrich's  mother  died  early.  I  fancy  she  was  gentler 
and  of  a  truer  nobleness.  He  says  the  only  book  they 
have  in  the  castle  is  an  old  illuminated  Missal  which 
belonged  to  her.  He  has  another  aunt,  Beatrice,  who 
is  in  the  convent  at  Nimptschen  with  our  Eva.  They 
sent  her  there  to  prevent  her  marrying  the  son  of  a 
family  with  whom  they  had  a  hereditary  feud.  I  begin 
to  feel,  as  Fritz  used  to  say,  that  the  life  of  these  petty 
nobles  is  not  nearly  so  noble  as  that  of  the  burghers. 
They  seem  to  know  nothing  of  the  world  beyond  the 


246     CHRONICLES  OP  THE  SCHONBERG-COTTA  FAMILY. 

little  district  they  rule  by  tei'ror.  They  have  no  honest 
way  of  maintaining  themselves,  but  live  by  the  hard 
toil  of  their  poor  oppressed  peasants,  and  by  the  plunder 
of  their  enemies. 

Herr  Reichenbach,  on  the  other  hand,  is  connected 
with  the  patrician  families  in  the  great  city  of  Niirn- 
berg;  and  although  he  does  not  talk  much,  he  has 
histories  to  tell  of  painters  and  poets ,  and  great  events 
in  the  broad  field  of  the  world.  Ah,  I  wish  he  had 
known  Fritz!     He  likes  to  hear  me  talk  of  him. 

And  then,  moreover,  Herr  Reichenbach  has  much 
to  tell  me  about  Brother  Martin  Luther,  who  is  at  the 
head  of  the  Eremite  or  Augustine  Convent  here,  and 
seems  to  me  to  be  the  great  man  of  Wittenberg;  at 
least  people  appear  to  like  him  or  dislike  him  more 
than  any  one  else  here. 

October  49,  45i%. 

This  has  been  a  great  day  at  Wittenberg.  Friar 
Martin  Luther  has  been  created  Doctor  of  Divinity. 
Master  Reichenbach  procured  us  excellent  places,  and 
we  saw  the  degree  conferred  on  him  by  Dr.  Andrew 
Bodenstein  of  Carlstadt. 

The  great  bell  of  the  city  churches,  which  only 
sounds  on  great  occasions,  pealed  as  if  for  a  Church 
festival;  all  the  university  authorities  marched  in  pro- 
cession through  the  streets;  and  after  taking  the  vow, 
Friar  Martin  was  solemnly  invested  with  the  doctor's 
robes,  hat,  and  ring  —  a  massive  gold  ring  presented 
to  him  by  the  Elector. 

But  the  part  which  impressed  me  most  was  the  oath, 
which  Dr.  Luther  pronounced  most  solemnly,  so  that 
the  words,   in  his  fine  clear  voice,   rang  through  the 


ELSE'S  STORY.  247 

silence.  He  repeated  it  after  Dr.  Bodenstein,  who  is 
commonly  called  Carlstadt.  The  words  in  Latin,  Herr 
Reichenhach  says,  were  these  (he  wrote  them  for  me  to 
send  to  Eva),  — 

"Juro  me  veritatem  evangelicam  viriliter  defen- 
surunr,"  which  Herr  Reichenhach  translated,  "/  swear 
vigorously  to  defend  evangelical  truth.''1 

This  oath  is  only  required  at  one  other  university 
besides  Wittenberg  —  that  of  Tubingen.  Dr.  Lutber 
swore  it  as  if  he  were  a  knight  of  olden  times,  vowing 
to  risk  life  and  limb  in  some  sacred  cause.  To  me, 
who  could  not  understand  the  words,  his  manner  was 
more  that  of  a  warrior  swearing  on  his  sword,  than  of 
a  doctor  of  divinity. 

And  Master  Reichenhach  says,  "What  he  has  pro- 
mised he  will  do!" 

Chriemhild  laughs  at  Master  Reichenhach,  because 
he  has  entered  his  name  on  the  list  of  university  students, 
in  order  to  attend  Dr.  Luther's  lectures. 

"With  his  grave  old  face,  and  bis  grey  hair,"  she 
says,  "to  sit  among  those  noisy  student  boys!" 

But  I  can  see  nothing  laughable  in  it.  I  think  it 
is  a  sign  of  something  noble,  for  a  man  in  the  prime 
of  life  to  be  content  to  learn  as  a  little  child.  And 
besides,  whatever  Chriemhild  may  say,  if  Herr  Reichen- 
hach is  a  little  bald,  and  has  a  few  grey  hairs,  it  is  not  on 
account  of  age.  Grown  men,  who  think  and  feel,  in 
these  stormy  times,  cannot  be  expected  to  have  smooth 
faces  and  full  curly  locks,  like  Ulrich  von  Gersdorf. 

I  am  sure  if  I  were  a  man  twice  as  old  as  he  is, 
there  is  nothing  I  should  like  better  than  to  attend  Dr. 
Luther's  lectures.  I  have  heard  him  preach  once  in 
the  City  Church,   and  it  was  quite  different  from  any 


248     CHRONICLES   OF  THE  SCHONBERG-COTTA  FAMILY. 

other  sermon  I  ever  heard.  He  spoke  of  God  and 
Christ,  and  heaven  and  hell,  with  as  much  conviction 
and  simplicity  as  if  he  had  heen  pleading  some  cause 
of  human  wrong,  or  relating  some  great  events  which 
happened  on  earth  yesterday,  instead  of  reciting  it  like 
a  piece  of  Latin  grammar,  as  so  many  of  the  monks  do. 

I  began  almost  to  feel  as  if  I  might  at  last  find  a 
religion  that  would  do  for  me.  Even  Christopher  was 
attentive.  He  said  Dr.  Luther  called  everything  by 
such  plain  names,  one  could  not  help  understanding. 

We  have  seen  him  once  at  our  house.  He  was  so 
respectful  to  our  grandmother,  and  so  patient  with  my 
father,  and  he  spoke  so  kindly  of  Fritz. 

Fritz  has  written  to  us,  and  has  recommended  us  to 
take  Dr.  Martin  Luther  for  our  family  confessor.  He 
says  he  can  never  repay  the  good  Dr.  Luther  has  done 
to  him.  And  certainly  he  writes  more  brightly  and 
hopefully  than  he  ever  has  since  he  left  us,  although 
he  has,  alas!  finally  taken  those  dreadful,  irrevocable 


March  4513. 

Dr.  Luther  has  consented  to  be  our  confessor-,  and 
thank  God  I  do  believe  at  last  I  have  found  the  religion 
which  may  make  me,  even  me,  love  God.  Dr.  Luther 
says  I  have  entirely  misunderstood  God  and  the  Lord 
Jesus  Christ.  He  seemed  to  understand  all  I  have 
been  longing  for  and  perplexing  myself  about  all  my 
life,  with  a  glance.  When  I  began  to  falter  out  my 
confessions  and  difficulties  to  him,  he  seemed  to  see 
them  all  spread  before  him,  and  explained  them  all  to 
me.  He  says  I  have  been  thinking  of  God  as  a  severe 
judge,  an  exactor,  a  harsh  creditor,  when  he  is  a  rich 


else's  story.  249 

Giver,  a  forgiving  Saviour,  yea,  the  very  fountain  of 
inexpressible  love. 

"God's  love,"  he  said,  "gives  in  such  a  way  that 
it  flows  from  a  Father's  heart,  the  well-spring  of  all 
good.  The  heart  of  the  giver  makes  the  gift  dear  and 
precious;  as  among  ourselves  we  say  of  even  a  trifling 
gift,  'It  comes  from  a  hand  we  love,'  and  look  not  so 
much  at  the  gift  as  at  the  heart. 

"If  we  will  only  consider  him  in  his  works,  we 
shall  learn  that  God  is  nothing  else  but  pure,  unutter- 
able love,  greater  and  more  than  any  one  can  think. 
The  shameful  thing  is,  that  the  world  does  not  regard 
this,  nor  tbank  him  for  it,  although  every  day  it  sees 
before  it  such  countless  benefits  from  him-,  and  it 
deserves  for  its  ingratitude  that  the  sun  should  not 
shine  another  moment  longer,  nor  the  grass  grow;  yet 
He  ceases  not,  without  a  moment's  interval,  to  love  us, 
and  to  do  us  good.  Language  must  fail  me  to  speak 
of  his  spiritual  gifts.  Here  he  pours  forth  for  us,  not 
sun  and  moon,  nor  heaven  and  earth,  but  his  own 
heart,  his  beloved  Son,  so  that  He  suffered  His  blood 
to  be  shed,  and  the  most  shameful  death  to  be  inflicted 
on  Him,  for  us  wretched,  wicked,  thankless  creatures. 
How,  then,  can  we  say  anything  but  that  God  is  an 
abyss  of  endless,  unfathomable  love? 

"The  whole  Bible,"  he  says,  "is  full  of  this, — that 
we  should  not  doubt,  but  be  absolutely  certain,  that 
God  is  merciful,  gracious,  patient,  faithful,  and  true; 
who  not  only  will  keep  his  promises,  but  already  has 
kept  and  done  abundantly  beyond  what  he  promised, 
since  he  has  given  his  own  Son  for  our  sins  on  the 
cross,  that  all  who  believe  on  Him  should  not  perish, 
but  have  everlasting  life. 


250     CHRONICLES   OF  THE   SCHONBERG-COTTA  FAMILY. 

"Whoever  believes  and  embraces  this,"  he  added, 
"that  God  has  given  his  only  Son  to  die  for  us  poor 
sinners,  to  him  it  is  no  longer  any  doubt,  but  the  most 
certain  truth,  that  God  reconciles  us  to  himself,  and  is 
favourable  and  heartily  gracious  to  us. 

"Since  the  gospel  shows  us  Christ  the  Son  of  God, 
who,  according  to  the  will  of  the  Father,  has  offered 
himself  up  for  us ,  and  has  satisfied  for  sin ,  the  heart 
can  no  more  doubt  God's  goodness  and  grace,  —  is  no 
more  affrighted,  nor  flies  from  God,  but  sets  all  its  hope 
in  his  goodness  and  mercy." 

"The  apostles  are  always  exhorting  us,"  he  says, 
"to  continue  in  the  love  of  God,  —  that  is,  that  each 
one  should  entirely  conclude  in  his  heart  that  he  is 
loved  by  God;  and  they  set  before  our  eyes  a  certain 
proof  of  it,  in  that  God  has  not  spared  his  Son,  but 
given  him  for  the  world,  that  through  His  death  the 
world  might  again  have  life. 

"It  is  God's  honour  and  glory  to  give  liberally. 
His  nature  is  all  pure  love-,  so  that  if  any  one  would 
describe  or  picture  God,  he  must  describe  One  who  is 
pure  love,  the  divine  nature  being  nothing  else  than  a 
furnace  and  glow  of  such  love  that  it  fills  heaven  and 
earth. 

"Love  is  an  image  of  God,  and  not  a  dead  image, 
nor  one  painted  on  paper,  but  the  living  essence  of  the 
divine  nature,  which  burns  full  of  all  goodness. 

"He  is  not  harsh,  as  we  are  to  those  who  have  in- 
jured us.  We  withdraw  our  hand  and  close  our  purse, 
but  he  is  kind  to  the  unthankful  and  the  evil. 

"He  sees  thee  in  thy  poverty  and  wretchedness, 
and  knows  thou  hast  nothing  to  pay.  Therefore  he 
freely  forgives,  and  gives  thee  all. 


ELSE  S   STORY.  251 

"It  is  not  to  be  borne,"  be  said,  "that  Christian 
people  should  say,  We  cannot  know  whether  God  is 
favourable  to  us  or  not.  On  the  contrary,  we  should 
learn  to  say,  I  know  that  I  believe  in  Christ,  and  there- 
fore that  God  is  my  gracious  Father." 

"What  is  the  reason  that  God  gives?"  he  said,  one 
day.  "What  moves  him  to  it?  Nothing  but  unutter- 
able love,  because  he  delights  to  give  and  to  bless. 
What  does  he  give?  Not  empires  merely,  not  a  world 
full  of  silver  and  gold,  not  heaven  and  earth  only,  but 
his  Son,  who  is  as  great  as  himself,  —  that  is,  eternal 
and  incomprehensible;  a  gift  as  infinite  as  the  Giver, 
the  very  spring  and  fountain  of  all  grace-,  yea,  the  pos- 
session and  property  of  all  the  riches  and  treasures  of 
God." 

Dr.  Luther  said  also,  that  the  best  name  by  which 
we  can  think  of  God  is  Father.  "It  is  a  loving,  sweet, 
deep,  heart-touching  name;  for  the  name  of  father  is  in 
its  nature  full  of  inborn  sweetness  and  comfort.  There- 
fore, also,  we  must  confess  ourselves  children  of  God; 
for  by  this  name  we  deeply  touch  our  God,  since  there 
is  not  a  sweeter  sound  to  the  father  than  the  voice  of 
the  child." 

All  this  is  wonderful  to  me.  I  scarcely  dare  to 
open  my  hand,  and  take  this  belief  home  to  my  heart. 

Is  it  then,  indeed,  thus  Ave  must  think  of  God?  Is 
he,  indeed,  as  Dr.  Luther  says,  ready  to  listen  to  our 
feeblest  cry,  ready  to  forgive  us,    nd  to  help  us? 

And  if  he  is  indeed  like  this,  and  cares  what  we 
think  of  him,  how  I  must  have  grieved  him  all  these 
years! 

Not  a  moment  longer!  I  will  not  distrust  Thee  a 
moment  longer.  See,  heavenly  Father,  I  have  come  back ! 


252     CHRONICLES   OF  THE   SCHONBERG-COTTA.  FAMILY. 

Can  it,  indeed,  be  possible  that  God  is  pleased 
when  we  trust  bim,  —  pleased  wben  we  pray,  simply 
because  be  loves  us? 

Can  it  indeed  be  true,  as  Dr.  Lutber  says,  tbat  love 
is  our  greatest  virtue;  and  tbat  we  please  God  best  by 
being  kind  to  eacb  other,  just  because  that  is  what  is 
most  like  him? 

I  am  sure  it  is  true.   It  is  so  good,  it  must  be  true. 

Then  it  is  possible  for  me,  even  for  me,  to  love 
God.  How  is  it  possible  for  me  not  to  love  bim?  And 
it  is  possible  for  me,  even  for  me,  to  be  religious,  if  to 
be  religious  is  to  love  God,  and  to  do  whatever  we  can 
to  make  those  around  us  happy. 

But  if  this  is  indeed  religion ,  it  is  happiness ,  it  is 
freedom,  —  it  is  life! 

Why,  then,  are  so  many  of  the  religious  people  I 
know  of  a  sad  countenance,  as  if  they  were  bond- 
servants toiling  for  a  hard  master? 

I  must  ask  Dr.  Lutber. 

April,  1513. 

I  have  asked  Dr.  Luther,  and  he  says  it  is  because 
the  devil  makes  a  great  deal  of  the  religion  we  see; 
that  he  pretends  to  be  Christ,  and  comes  and  terrifies 
people,  and  scourges  them  with  the  remembrance  of 
tbeir  sins,  and  tells  them  they  must  not  dare  to  lift  up 
their  eyes  to  heaven,  because  God  is  so  boly,  and  they 
are  so  sinful.  But  it  is  all  because  be  knows  that  if 
they  would  lift  their  eyes  to  heaven,  their  terrors  would 
vanish,  and  they  would  see  Christ  there,  not  as  the 
Judge,  and  the  bard,  exacting  Creditor,  but  as  the 
pitiful,  loving  Saviour. 

I  find  it  a  great  comfort  to  believe  in  this  way  in 
the  devil.     Has  he   not  been  trying  to  teach  me  his 


ELSE  S  STORY.  253 

religion  all  my  life?  And  now  I  have  found  him  out! 
He  has  heen  telling  me  lies,  not  about  myself  (Dr. 
Luther  says  he  cannot  paint  us  more  sinful  than  we 
are),  but  lies  about  God.  It  helps  me  almost  as  much 
to  hear  Dr.  Luther  speak  about  the  devil  as  about  God 
—  "the  malignant,  sad  spirit,"  he  says,  "who  loves  to 
make  every  one  sad." 

With  God's  help,  I  will  never  believe  him  again. 
But  Dr.  Luther  said  I  shall,  often;  that  he  will  come 
again  and  malign  God,  and  assail  my  peace  in  so 
many  ways,  that  it  will  be  long  before  I  learn  to 
know  him. 

I  shuddered  when  he  told  me  this;  but  then  he  re- 
assured me,  by  telling  me  a  beautiful  story,  which,  he 
said,  was  from  the  Bible.  It  was  about  a  Good  Shep- 
herd and  silly,  wandering  sheep,  and  a  wolf  who  sought 
to  devour  them.  "All  the  care  of  the  Shepherd,"  he 
said,  "is  in  the  tenderest  way  to  attract  the  sheep  to 
keep  close  to  him;  and  when  they  wander,  he  goes  and 
seeks  them,  takes  them  on  his  shoulder,  and  carries 
them  safe  home.  All  our  wisdom,"  he  says,  "is  to  keep 
always  near  this  Good  Shepherd,  who  is  Christ,  and  to 
listen  to  His  voice." 

I  know  the  Lord  Jesus  Christ  is  called  the  Good 
Shepherd.  I  have  seen  the  picture  of  him  carrying  the 
lamb  on  his  shoulder.  But  until  Dr.  Luther  explained 
it  to  me,  I  thought  it  meant  that  he  was  the  Lord  and 
Owner  of  all  the  world,  who  are  his  flock.  But  I  never 
thought  that  he  cared  for  me  as  his  sheep,  sought  me, 
called  me,  watched  me,  even  me,  day  by  day. 

Other  people,  no  doubt,  have  understood  all  this 
before.  And  yet,  if  so,  why  do  not  the  monks  preach 
of  it?     Why   should  Aunt  Agnes   serve  Him   in  the 


254     CHRONICLES  OF  THE  SCHONBERG-COTTA  FAMILY. 

convent  by  penances  and  self-torm  en  tings ,  instead  of 
serving  Him  in  the  world  by  being  kind  and  helping 
all  around?  Why  should  our  dear,  gentle  mother,  have 
such  sad,  self-reproachful  thoughts,  and  feel  as  if  she 
and  our  family  were  under  a  curse? 

Dr.  Luther  said  that  Christ  was  "made  a  curse  for 
us;"  that  he,  the  unspotted  and  undefiled  Lamb  of 
God,  bore  the  curse  for  us  on  the  cross;  and  that  we, 
believing  in  him,  are  not  under  the  curse,  but  under 
the  blessing  —  that  we  are  blessed. 

This,  then,  is  what  the  crucifix  and  the  Agnus  Dei 
mean. 

Doubtless  many  around  me  have  understood  all 
this  long  ago.  I  am  sure,  at  least,  that  our  Eva  under- 
stood it. 

"But  what  inexpressible  joy  for  me,  as  I  sit  at  my 
embroidery  in  the  garden,  to  look  up  through  the 
apple-blossoms  and  the  fluttering  leaves,  and  to  see 
God's  love  there;  —  to  listen  to  the  thrush  that  has 
built  his  nest  among  them,  and  feel  God's  love,  who 
cares  for  the  birds,  in  every  note  that  swells  his  little 
throat;  —  to  look  beyond  to  the  bright  blue  depths  of 
the  sky,  and  feel  they  are  a  canopy  of  blessing  —  the 
roof  of  the  house  of  my  Father;  that  if  clouds  pass 
over,  it  is  the  unchangeable  light  they  veil;  that,  even 
when  the  day  itself  passes,  I  shall  see  that  the  night 
itself  only  unveils  new  worlds  of  light;  and  to  know 
that  if  I  could  unwrap  fold  after  fold  of  God's  universe, 
I  should  only  unfold  more  and  more  blessing,  and  see 
deeper  and  deeper  into  the  love  which  is  at  the  heart 
of  all! 

And  then  what  joy  again  to  turn  to  my  embroidery, 
and,  as  my  fingers  busily  ply  the  needle,  to  think  — 


else's  story.  255 

"This  is  to  help  my  father  and  mother;  this,  even 
this,  is  a  little  work  of  love.  And  as  I  sit  and  stitch, 
God  is  pleased  with  me,  and  with  what  I  am  doing. 
He  gives  me  this  to  do,  as  much  as  he  gives  the  priests 
to  pray,  and  Dr.  Luther  to  preach.  I  am  serving  Him, 
and  he  is  near  me  in  my  little  corner  of  the  world,  and 
is  pleased  with  me  —  even  with  me!" 

Oh,  Fritz  and  Eva!  if  you  had  both  known  this, 
need  you  have  left  us  to  go  and  serve  God  so  far 
away? 

Have  I  indeed,  like  St.  Christopher,  found  my  bank 
of  the  river,  where  I  can  serve  my  Saviour  by  helping 
all  the  pilgrims  I  can? 

Better,  better  than  St.  Christopher-,  for  do  I  not 
know  the  voice  that  calls  to  me  — 

"Else!  Else!  do  this  for  me?" 

And  now  I  do  not  feel  at  all  afraid  to  grow  old, 
which  is  a  great  relief,  as  I  am  already  six-and-twenty, 
and  the  children  think  me  nearly  as  old  as  our  mother. 
For  what  is  growing  old,  if  Dr.  Martin  Luther  is  in- 
deed right  (and  I  am  sure  he  is),  but  growing  daily 
nearer  God,  and  His  holy,  happy  home!  Dr.  Luther 
says  our  Saviour  called  heaven  his  Father's  house. 

Not  that  I  wish  to  leave  this  world.  While  God 
wills  we  should  stay  here,  and  is  with  us,  is  it  not 
home-like  enough  for  us? 

May,  1513. 

This  morning  I  was  busy  making  a  favourite  pud- 
ding of  the  father's,  when  I  heard  Herr  Reichenbach's 
voice  at  the  door.  He  went  into  the  dwelling-room, 
and  soon  afterwards  Chriemhild,  Atlantis,  and  Thekla, 
invaded  the  kitchen. 


256     CHRONICLES   OF    rHE  SCHONBERG-COTTA  FAMILY. 

"Hew  Reichenbach  wishes  to  have  a  consultation," 
said  Chriemhild,  "and  we  are  sent  away." 

I  felt  anxious  for  a  moment  It  seemed  like  the 
old  Eisenach  days;  but  since  we  have  been  at  Witten- 
berg we  have  never  gone  into  debt;  so  that,  after  think- 
ing a  little.  1  was  re-assured.  The  children  were  roll 
of  speculations  what  it  would  be  about.  Chriemhild 
thought  it  was  some  affair  of  state,  because  she  had 
seen  him  in  close  confabulation  with  Ulrich  von  Gers- 
dorf  as  he  came  up  the  street,  and  they  had  probably 
been  discussing  some  question  about  the  privileges  of 
the  noble-  and  burghers. 

Atlantis  believed  it  had  something  to  do  with  Dr. 
Martin  Luther,  because  Herr  Reichenbach  had  presented 
the  mother  with  a  new  pamphlet  oi  the  Doctor's  on 
entering  the  room. 

Thekla  was  sure  it  was  at  last  the  opportunity  to 
make  use  of  one  oi  the  father's  discoveries,  —  whether 
the  perpetual  clock,  or  the  transmutation  of  metals,  or 
the  steam-pump,  she  could  not  tell;  but  she  was  per- 
suaded that  it  was  something  which  was  to  make  our 
fortunes  at  last,  because  Herr  Reichenbach  looked  so 
very  much  in  earnest,  and  was  so  very  respectful  b 
our  father. 

They  had  not  much  time  to  discuss  their  various 
theories  when  we  heard  Herr  Eeichenbach's  step  pass 
hurriedly  through  the  pas?age,  and  the  door  closed 
hastily  after  him. 

'  l^o  you  call  that  a  consultation?"  said  Chriem- 
hild. scornfully,  '"he  has  not  been  here  ten  minute:-." 

The  next  instant  our  mother  appeared,  looking  very 
pale,  and  with  her  voice  trembling  as  she  said,  — 

"Else,  my  child,  we  want  you." 


,.';S   STORY.  2:V( 

"You  are  to  know  first,   El -o Z1   said  the  children. 
"Well,   it  i.s   only    fair;    you   are   a   dear   good    el 
sister,  and  will  be  sure  to  tell  us." 

I  scarcely  knew  why,  hut  my  fingers  did  not  seem 
as  much  under  control  as  usual,  and  it  was  some  mo- 
menta before  I  could  put  the  finishing  stroke  to  my 
pudding,  wash  my  hands,  pull  down  the  white  sleeves 
to  my  wrists,  and  join  them  in  the  dwelling-room,  fi<> 
that  my  mother  re-appeared  with  an  impatience  very 
unusual  for  her,  and  led  me  in  herself. 

"Else,  darling,  come  here,"  said  my  father.  And 
when  he  felt  my  hand  in  his,  he  added,  "  ll<-rr  Reichen- 
bach  left  a  message  for  thee.  Other  parents  often 
decide  these  matters  for  their  children,  but  thy  mother 
and  I  wish  to  leave  the  matter  to  thee.  —  Couldst  thou 
be  his  wife?" 

The  question  took  me  by  surprise,  and  I  could  only 
say,  — 

"Can  it  be  possible  he  thinks  of  me?" 

"I  see  nothing  impossible  in  that,  rny  Else,"  said 
my  father;  "but  at  all  events  \l<sr  Reichenbach  has 
placed  that  beyond  a  doubt.  The  question  now  is 
whether  our  Else  can  think  of  him." 

I  could  not  say  anything. 

"Think  well  before  you  reject  him,"  said  my  father; 
"he  is  a  good  and  generous  man,  he  desires  no  portion 
with  thee;  he  says  thou  wouldst  be  a  portion  for  a 
king;  and  I  must  say  he  is  very  intelligent  and  well- 
informed,  and  can  appreciate  scientific  inventions  as 
few  men  in  these  days  can." 

"I  do  not  wish  hirn  to  be  dismissed,"  I  faltered. 

But  my  tender-hearted  mother  said,  laying  my  head 
on  her  shoulder,  — 

Schonierg-Cotta  Family.  I.  !• 


258     CHRONICLES  OF  THE  JSCHONBERG-COTTA  FAMILY. 

"Yet  think  well,  darling,  before  you  accept  him. 
We  are  not  poor  now,  and  we  need  no  stranger's  wealth 
to  make  us  happy.  Heaven  forbid  that  our  child  should 
sacrifice  herself  for  us.  Herr  Reichenbach  is,  no  doubt, 
a  good  and  wise  man,  but  I  know  well  a  young  maiden's 
fancy.  He  is  little,  I  know  —  not  tall  and  stalwart, 
like  our  Fritz  and  Christopher;  and  he  is  a  little  bald, 
and  he  is  not  very  young,  and  rather  grave  and  silent, 
and  young  girls  — " 

"But,  mother,"  I  said,  "I  am  not  a  young  girl,  I 
am  six-and-twenty  •,  and  I  do  not  think  Herr  Reichen- 
bach old,  and  I  never  noticed  that  he  was  bald,  and  I 
am  sure  to  me  he  is  not  silent." 

"That  will  do,  Else,"  said  the  grandmother,  laugh- 
ing from  her  corner  by  the  stove.  "Son  and  daughter, 
let  these  two  settle  it  together.  They  will  arrange 
matters  better  than  we  shall  for  them." 

And  in  the  evening  Herr  Reichenbach  came  again, 
and  everything  was  arranged. 

"And  that  is  what  the  consultation  was  about!" 
said  the  children,  not  without  some  disappointment. 
"It  seems  such  an  ordinary  thing,"  said  Atlantis,  "we 
are  so  used  to  seeing  Herr  Reichenbach.  He  comes 
almost  every  day." 

"I  do  not  see  that  that  is  any  objection,"  said 
Chriemhild;  "but  it  seems  hardly  like  being  married, 
only  just  to  cross  the  street.  His  house  is  just  op- 
posite." 

"But  it  is  a  great  deal  prettier  than  ours,"  said 
Thekla.  "I  like  Herr  Reichenbach;  no  one  ever  took 
such  an  interest  in  my  drawings  as  he  does.  He  tells 
me  where  they  are  wrong,  and  shows  me  how  to  make 
them  right,  as  if  he  really  felt  it  of  some  consequence; 


else's  story.  259 

which  it  is,  you  know,  Else,  because  one  day  I  mean 
to  embroider  and  help  the  family,  like  you.  And  no 
one  was  ever  so  kind  to  Nix  as  he  is.  He  took  the 
dog  on  his  knee  the  other  day,  and  drew  out  a  splinter 
which  had  lamed  him,  which  Nix  would  not  let  any 
one  else  do  but  me.  Nix  is  very  fond  of  Herr 
Reichenbach,  and  so  am  I.  He  is  much  wiser,  I  think, 
than  Ulrich,  who  teases  Nix,  and  pretends  never  to 
know  my  cats  from  my  cows;  and  I  do  not  see  that 
he  is  much  older;  besides,  I  could  not  bear  our  Else 
to  live  a  step  further  off." 

And  Thekla  climbed  up  on  my  lap  and  kissed  me, 
while  Nix  stood  on  his  hind  legs  and  barked,  evidently 
thinking  it  was  a  great  occasion.  So  that  two  of  the 
family  at  least  have  given  their  consent. 

But  none  of  the  family  know  yet  what  Herr  Reichen- 
bach said  to  me  when  we  stood  for  a  few  minutes  by 
the  window,  before  he  left  this  evening.     He  said  — 

"Else,  it  is  God  who  gives  me  this  joy.  Ever  since 
the  evening  when  you  all  arrived  at  Wittenberg,  and 
I  saw  you  tenderly  helping  the  aged  and  directing  the 
young  ones,  and  never  flurried  in  all  the  bustle,  but 
always  at  leisure  to  thank  any  one  for  any  little  kind- 
ness, or  to  help  any  one  out  of  any  little  difficulty,  I 
thought  you  were  the  light  of  this  home,  and  I  prayed 
God  one  day  to  make  you  the  light  of  mine." 

Ah!  that  shows  how  love  veils  people's  faults;  but 
he  did  not  know  Fritz ,  and  not  much  of  Eva.  They 
were  the  true  sunshine  of  our  home.  However,  at  all 
events,  with  God's  help,  I  will  do  my  very  best  to 
make  Herr  Reichenbach's  home  bright. 

But  the  best  of  all  is,  I  am  not  afraid  to  accept 
this  blessing.     I  believe  it  is  God,  out  of  his  inexpres- 

17* 


260     CHRONICLES   OF   THE   SCHONBEUG-COTTA  FAMILY. 

sible  love,  as  Dr.  Luther  says,  who  has  given  it  me, 
and  I  am  not  afraid  He  will  think  me  too  happy. 

Before  I  had  Dr.  Luther  for  my  confessor,  I  should 
never  have  known  if  it  was  to  be  blessing  or  a  curse;  but 
now  I  am  not  afraid.  A  chain  seems  to  have  dropped 
from  my  heart,  and  a  veil  from  my  eyes,  and  I  can 
call  God  Father,  and  take  everything  fearlessly  from 
him. 

And  I  know  Gottfried  feels  the  same.  Since  I 
never  had  a  vocation  for  the  higher  religious  life,  it  is 
an  especial  mercy  for  me  to  have  found  a  religion 
which  enables  a  very  poor  every-day  maiden  in  the 
world  to  love  God  and  to  seek  his  blessing. 

June. 

Our  mother  has  been  full  of  little  tender  apologies 
to  me  this  week,  for  having  called  Gottfried  (Herr 
Reichenbach  says  I  am  to  call  him  so)  old,  and  bald, 
and  little,  and  grave. 

"You  know,  darling,  I  only  meant  I  did  not  want 
you  to  accept  him  for  our  sakes.  And  after  all,  as 
you  say,  he  is  scarcely  bald;  and  they  say  all  men 
who  think  much  lose  their  hair  early;  and  I  am  sure 
it  is  no  advantage  to  be  always  talking;  and  every 
one  cannot  be  as  tall  as  our  Fritz  and  Christopher." 

"And  after  all,  dear  mother,"  said  the  grandmother, 
"Else  did  not  choose  Herr  Reichenbach  for  your  sakes; 
but  are  you  quite  sure  he  did  not  choose  Else  for  her 
father's  sake?  He  was  always  so  interested  in  the 
steam-pump!" 

My  mother  and  I  are  much  cheered  by  seeing  the 
quiet  influence  Herr  Reichenbach  seems  to  have  over 
Christopher,   whose   companions   and   late  hours   have 


else's  story.  261 

often  caused  us  anxiety  lately.  Christopher  is  not 
distrustful  of  him,  because  he  is  no  priest,  and  no 
great  favourer  of  monks  and  convents;  and  he  is  not 
so  much  afraid  about  Christopher  as  we  timid,  anxious 
women  were  beginning  to  be.  He  thinks  there  is  good 
metal  in  him;  and  he  says  the  best  ore  cannot  look 
like  gold  until  it  is  fused.  It  is  so  difficult  for  us 
women,  who  have  to  watch  from  our  quiet  homes  afar, 
to  distinguish  the  glow  of  the  smelting  furnace  from 
the  glare  of  a  conflagration. 

Wittenberg,  September  1!H3. 

This  morning,  Herr  Eeichenbach,  Christopher,  and 
Ulrich  von  Gersdorf  (who  is  studying  here  for  a  time) 
came  in  full  of  excitement,  from  a  discussion  they  had 
been  hearing  between  Dr.  Luther  and  some  of  the 
doctors  and  professors  of  Erfurt. 

I  do  not  know  that  I  quite  clearly  understand  what 
it  was  about;  but  they  seemed  to  think  it  of  great  im- 
portance. 

Our  house  has  become  rather  a  gathering-place  of 
late;  partly,  I  think,  on  account  of  ray  father's  blind- 
ness, which  always  insures  that  there  will  be  some  one 
at  home. 

It  seems  that  Dr.  Luther  attacks  the  old  methods 
of  teaching  in  the  universities ,  which  makes  the  older 
professors  look  on  him  as  a  dangerous  innovator,  while 
the  young  delight  in  him  as  a  hero  fighting  their 
battles.  And  yet  the  authorities  Dr.  Luther  wishes  to 
re-instate  are  older  than  those  he  attacks.  He  demands 
that  nothing  shall  be  received  as  the  standard  of  theo- 
logical truth  except  the  Holy  Scriptures.  I  cannot 
understand  why  there  should  be  so  much  conflict  about 


262     CHRONICLES   OF  THE  SCHONBERG-COTTA  FAMILY. 

this ,  because  I  thought  all  we  believed  was  founded  on 
the  Holy  Scriptures.  I  suppose  it  is  not;  but  if  not,  on 
whose  authority?  I  must  ask  Gottfried  this  one  day 
when  we  are  alone. 

The  discussion  to-day  was  between  Dr.  Andrew 
Bodenstein,  Archdeacon  of  Wittenberg,  Dr.  Luther, 
and  Dr.  Jodocus  of  Eisenach,  called  Trutvetter,  his  old 
teacher.  Dr.  Carlstadt  himself,  they  said,  seemed  quite 
convinced;  and  Dr.  Jodocus  is  silenced  and  is  going 
back  to  Erfurt. 

The  enthusiasm  of  the  students  is  great.  The  great 
point  of  Dr.  Luther's  attack  seems  to  be  Aristotle,  who 
was  a  heathen  Greek.  I  cannot  think  why  these 
Church  doctors  should  be  so  eager  to  defend  him;  but 
Hcrr  Eeichenbach  says  all  the  teaching  of  the  schools 
and  all  the  doctrine  of  indulgences  are  in  some  way 
founded  on  this  Aristotle,  and  that  Dr.  Luther  wants 
to  clear  away  everything  which  stands  as  a  screen  be- 
tween the  students  and  the  Bible. 

Ulrich  von  Gersdorf  said  that  our  doctor  debates 
like  his  uncle,  Franz  von  Sickingen,  fights.  He  stands 
like  a  rock  on  some  point  he  feels  firm  on;  and  then, 
when  his  opponents  are  weary  of  trying  to  move  him, 
he  rushes  suddenly  down  on  them,  and  sweeps  them 
away  like  a  torrent. 

"But  his  great  secret  seems  to  be,"  remarked 
Christopher,  "that  he  believes  every  word  he  says.  He 
speaks  like  other  men  work,  as  if  every  stroke  were 
to  tell." 

And  Gottfried  said,  quietly,  "He  is  fighting  the 
battle  of  God  with  the  scribes  and  Pharisees  of  our 
days;    and    whether   he   triumph  or   perish,    the  battle 


else's  story.  263 

will  be  won.  It  is  a  battle,  not  merely  against  false- 
hood, but  for  truth,  to  keep  a  position  be  lias  won." 

"When  I  hear  him,"  said  TJlrich,  "I  wish  my 
student  days  over,  and  long  to  be  in  the  old  castle  in 
the  Thuringian  Forest,  to  give  every  thing  good  there 
a  new  impulse.  He  makes  me  feel  the  way  to  fight 
the  world's  great  battles  is  for  each  to  conquer  the 
enemies  of  God  in  his  own  heart  and  home.  He  speaks 
of  Aristotle  and  Augustine;  but  he  makes  me  think  of 
the  sloth  and  tyranny  in  the  castle,  and  the  misery 
and  oppression  in  the  peasant's  hut,  which  are  to  me 
what  Aristotle  and  the  schoolmen  are  to  him." 

"And  I,"  said  Christopher,  "when  he  speaks,  think 
of  our  printing  press,  until  my  daily  toil  there  seems 
the  highest  work  I  could  do;  and  to  be  a  printer;  and 
wing  such  words  as  his  through  the  world,  the  noblest 
thing  on  earth." 

"But  his  lectures  fight  the  good  fight  even  more 
than  his  disputations,"  remarked  Gottfried.  "In  these 
debates  he  clears  the  world  of  the  foe;  but  in  his  ex- 
planations of  the  Psalms  and  the  Romans,  he  carries 
the  battle  within,  and  clears  the  heart  of  the  lies  which 
kept  it  back  from  God.  In  his  attacks  on  Aristotle, 
he  leads  you  to  the  Bible  as  the  one  source  of  truth; 
in  his  discourses  on  justification  by  faith  he  leads  you 
to  God  as  the  one  source  of  holiness  and  joy." 

"They  say  poor  Dr.  Jodocus  is  quite  ill  with 
vexation  at  his  defeat,"  said  Christopher;  "and  that 
there  are  many  bitter  things  said  against  Dr.  Luther 
at  Erfurt." 

"What  does  that  matter,"  rejoined  Ulrich,  "since 
Wittenberg  is  becoming  every  month  more  thronged 
with   students   from    all  parts    of    Germany,   and   the 


264     CHRONICLES  OF  THE  SCHONBERG-COTTA  FAMILY. 

Augustinian  cloister  is  already  full  of  young  monks, 
sent  hither  from  various  convents,  to  study  under  Dr. 
Luther?  The  youth  and  vigour  of  the  nation  are 
with  us.     Let  the  dead  bury  their  dead." 

"Ah,  children,"  murmured  the  grandmother,  look- 
ing up  from  her  knitting,  "that  is  a  funeral  procession 
that  lasts  long.  The  young  always  speak  of  the  old 
as  if  they  had  been  born  old.  Do  you  think  our  hearts 
never  throbbed  high  with  hope,  and  that  we  never 
fought  with  dragons?  Yet  the  old  serpent  is  not 
killed  yet.  Nor  will  he  be  dead  when  we  are  dead, 
and  you  are  old,  and  your  grandchildren  take  their 
place  in  the  old  fight,  and  think  they  are  fighting  the 
first  battle  the  world  has  seen,  and  vanquishing  the 
last  enemy." 

"Perhaps  not,"  said  Gottfried;  "but  the  last  enemy 
will  be  overcome  at  last,  and  who  knows  how  soon?" 

Wittenberg,  October  1515. 

It  is  a  strong  bond  of  union  between  Herr  Reichen- 
bach  and  me,  our  reverence  and  love  for  Dr.  Luther. 

He  is  lecturing  now  on  the  Romans  and  the  Psalms, 
and  as  I  sit  at  my  spinning-wheel,  or  sew,  Gottfried 
often  reads  to  me  notes  from  these  lectures,  or  tells 
me  what  they  have  been  about.  This  is  a  comfort  to 
me  also,  because  he  has  many  thoughts  and  doubts 
which,  were  it  not  for  his  friendship  with  Dr.  Luther, 
would  make  me  tremble  for  him.  They  are  so  new 
and  strange  to  me;  and  as  it  is  I  never  venture  to 
speak  of  them  to  my  mother. 

He  thinks  there  is  great  need  of  reformations  and 
changes  in  the  Church.  He  even  thinks  Christopher 
not  far  from  right  in  his  dislike  of  many  of  the  priests 


ELS&'S  STORY.  265 

and  monks,  who,  he  says,  lead  lives  which  are  a  dis- 
grace to  Christendom. 

But  his  chief  detestation  is  the  sale  of  indulgences, 
now  preached  in  many  of  the  towns  of  Saxony  hy  Dr. 
Tetzel.  He  says  it  is  a  shameless  traffic  in  lies,  and 
that  most  men  of  intelligence  and  standing  in  the 
great  cities  think  so.  And  he  tells  me  that  a  very 
good  man,  a  professor  of  theology  —  Dr.  John  Wesel 
—  preached  openly  against  them  about  fifty  years  ago 
at  the  University  of  Erfurt,  and  afterwards  at  Worms 
and  Mainz  5  and  that  John  of  Goch  and  other  holy  men 
were  most  earnest  in  denouncing  them. 

And  when  I  asked  if  the  Pope  did  not  sanction 
them,  he  said  that  to  understand  what  the  Pope  is 
one  needs  to  go  to  Rome.  He  went  there  in  his  youth, 
not  on  pilgrimage,  but  on  mercantile  business,  and  he 
told  me  that  the  wickedness  he  saw  there,  especially 
in  the  family  of  the  reigning  Pope,  the  Borgia,  for 
many  years  made  him  hate  the  very  name  of  religion. 
Indeed,  he  said  it  was  principally  through  Dr.  Luther 
that  he  had  begun  again  to  feel  there  could  be  a  reli- 
gion, which,  instead  of  being  a  cloak  for  sin,  should 
be  an  incentive  to  holiness. 

He  says  also  that  I  have  been  quite  mistaken  about 
"Reineke  Fuchs;"  that  it  is  no  vulgar  jest-book,  mock- 
ing at  really  sacred  things,  but  a  bitter,  earnest  satire 
against  the  hypocrisy  which  practises  all  kinds  of  sin 
in  the  name  of  sacred  things. 

He  doubts  even  if  the  Calixtines  and  Hussites  are 
as  bad  as  they  have  been  represented  to  be.  It  alarms 
me  sometimes  to  hear  him  say  these  things.  His  world 
is  so  much  larger  than  mine,  it  is  difficult  for  my 
thoughts   to   follow  him   into   it.      If  the  world  is   so 


266     CHRONICLES  OP  THE  SCHONBERG-COTTA  FAMILY. 

bad,  and  there  is  so  much  hypocrisy  in  the  holiest 
places,  perhaps  I  have  been  hard  on  poor  Christopher 
after  all. 

But  if  Fritz  has  found  it  so ,  how  unhappy  it  must 
make  him! 

Can  really  religious  people  like  Fritz  and  Eva  do 
nothing  better  for  the  world,  but  leave  it  to  grow  more 
and  more  corrupt  and  unbelieving,  while  they  sit  apart 
to  weave  their  robes  of  sanctity  in  convents.  It  does 
seem  time  for  something  to  be  done.  I  wonder  who 
will  do  it? 

I  thought  it  might  be  the  Pope;  but  Gottfried 
shakes  his  head,  and  says,  "No  good  thing  can  begin 
at  Rome." 

"Or  the  prelates?"  I  asked  one  day. 

"They  are  too  intent,"  he  said,  "on  making  their 
courts  as  magnificent  as  those  of  the  princes,  to  be 
able  to  interfere  with  the  abuses  by  which  their  re- 
venues are  maintained." 

"Or  the  princes?" 

"The  friendship  of  the  prelates  is  too  important  to 
them,  for  them  to  interfere  in  spiritual  matters." 

"Or  the  emperor?" 

"The  emperor,"  he  said,  "has  enough  to  do  to 
hold  his  own  against  the  princes,  the  prelates,  and  the 
pope." 

"Or  the  knights?" 

"The  knights  are  at  war  with  all  the  world,"  he 
replied;  "to  say  nothing  of  their  ceaseless  private  feuds 
with  each  other.  With  the  peasants  rising  on  one  side 
in  wild  insurrection,  the  great  nobles  contending  against 
their  privileges  on  the  other,  and  the  great  burgher 
families  throwing  their  barbarous   splendour  into   the 


else's  story.  267 

shade  as  much  as  the  city  palaces  do  their  bare  robber 
castles,  the  knights  and  petty  nobles  have  little  but 
bitter  words  to  spare  for  the  abuses  of  the  clergy. 
Besides,  most  of  them  have  relations  whom  they  hope 
to  provide  for  with  some  good  abbey." 

"Then  the  peasants!"  I  suggested.  "Did  not  the 
gospel  first  take  root  among  peasants?" 

"Inspired  peasants  and  fishermen!"  he  replied, 
thoughtfully.  "Peasants  who  had  walked  up  and  down 
the  land  three  years  in  the  presence  of  the  Master. 
But  who  is  to  teach  our  peasants  now?  They  cannot 
read!" 

"Then  it  must  be  the  burghers,"  I  said. 

"Each  may  be  prejudiced  in  favour  of  his  order," 
he  replied,  with  a  smile-,  "but  I  do  think  if  better  days 
dawn,  it  will  be  through  the  cities.  There  the  new 
learning  takes  root;  there  the  rich  have  society  and 
cultivation,  and  the  poor  have  teachers-,  and  men's 
minds  are  brightened  by  contact  and  debate,  and  there 
is  leisure  to  think  and  freedom  to  speak.  If  a  reforma- 
tion of  abuses  were  to  begin,  I  think  the  burghers 
would  promote  it  most  of  all." 

"But  who  is  to  begin  it?"  I  asked.  "Has  no  one 
ever  tried?" 

"Many  have  tried,"  he  replied  sadly;  "and  many 
have  perished  in  trying.  While  they  were  assailing 
one  abuse,  others  were  increasing.  Or  while  they 
endeavoured  to  heal  some  open  wound,  some  one 
arose  and  declared  that  it  was  impossible  to  separate 
the  disease  from  the  whole  frame,  and  that  they  were 
attempting  the  life  of  our  Holy  Mother  the  Church." 

"Who,  then,  will  venture  to  begin?"  I  said.  "Can 
it   be   Dr.    Luther?      He   is    bold    enough   to   venture 


268     CHRONICLES  OP  THE  SCHONBERG-COTTA  FAMILY. 

anything;  and  since  he  has  done  so  much  good  to 
Fritz,  and  to  vou,  and  to  me,  why  not  to  the  whole 
Church?" 

"Dr.  Luther  is  faithful  enough,  and  hold  enough 
for  anything  his  conscience  calls  him  to,"  said  Gott- 
fried; "but  he  is  occupied  with  saving  men's  souls,  not 
with  reforming  ecclesiastical  abuses." 

"But  if  the  ecclesiastical  abuses  came  to  interfere 
with  the  salvation  of  men's  souls,"  I  suggested,  "what 
would  Dr.  Luther  do  then?" 

"We  should  see,  Else,"  said  Gottfried.  "If  the 
wolves  attacked  one  of  Dr.  Luther's  sheep,  I  do  not 
think  he  would  care  with  what  weapon  he  rescued  it, 
or  at  what  risk." 


eva's  story.  269 


xm. 

eva's  story. 

Nimptschen,  1516. 

Great  changes  have  taken  place  during  these  last 
three  years  in  Aunt  Cotta's  home.  Else  has  been 
married  more  than  two  years,  and  sends  me  wonderful 
narratives  of  the  beauty  and  wisdom  of  her  little  Mar- 
garethe,  who  begins  now  to  lisp  the  names  of  mother, 
and  father,  and  aunts.  Else  has  also  taught  the  little 
creature  to  kiss  her  hand  to  a  picture  they  have  of  me, 
and  call  it  Cousin  Eva.  They  will  not  adopt  my  con- 
vent name. 

Chriemhild  also  is  betrothed  to  the  young  knight, 
Ulrich  von  Gersdorf,  who  has  a  castle  in  the  Thuringian 
Forest-,  and  she  writes  that  they  often  speak  of  Sister 
Ave,  and  that  he  keeps  the  dried  violets  still,  with  a 
lock  of  his  mother's  hair  and  a  relic  of  his  patron 
saint.  Chriemhild  says  I  should  scarcely  know  him 
again,  he  is  become  so  earnest  and  so  wise,  and  so  full 
of  good  purposes. 

And  little  Thekla  writes  that  she  also  understands 
something  of  Latin.  Else's  husband  has  taught  her; 
and  there  is  nothing  Else  and  Gottfried  Eeichenbach 
like  so  much  as  to  hear  her  sing  the  hymns  Cousin 
Eva  used  to  sing. 

They  seem  to  think  of  me  as  a  kind  of  angel  sister, 
who  was  early  taken  to  God,  and  will  never  grow  old. 
It  is  very  sweet  to  be  remembered  thus;  but  sometimes 


270     CHRONICLES  OF  THE   SCHONBERG-COTTA  FAMILY. 

it  seems  as  if  it  were  hardly  me  they  were  remember- 
ing or  loving,  but  what  I  was  or  might  have  been. 

Would  they  recognise  Cousin  Eva  in  the  grave, 
quiet  woman  of  twenty-two  I  have  become?  For  whilst 
in  the  old  home  Time  seems  to  mark  his  course  like  a 
stream  by  growth  and  life,  here  in  the  convent  he 
seems  to  mark  it  only  by  the  slow  falling  of  the 
shadow  on  the  silent  dial  —  the  shadow  of  death.  In 
the  convent  there  is  no  growth  but  growing  old. 

In  Aunt  Cotta's  home  the  year  expanded  from 
winter  into  spring,  and  summer,  and  autumn  —  seed- 
time and  harvest  —  the  season  of  flowers  and  the 
season  of  fruits.  The  seasons  grew  into  each  other,  we 
knew  not  how  or  when.  In  the  convent  the  year  is 
sharply  divided  into  December,  January,  February, 
March,  and  April,  with  nothing  to  distinguish  one 
month  from  another  but  their  names  and  dates. 

In  our  old  home  the  day  brightened  from  dawn  to 
noon,  and  then  mellowed  into  sunset,  and  softly  faded 
into  night.  Here  in  the  convent  the  day  is  separated 
into  hours  by  the  clock. 

Sister  Beatrice's  poor  faded  face  is  slowly  becom- 
ing a  little  more  faded;  Aunt  Agnes's  a  little  more 
worn  and  sharp;  and  I,  like  the  rest,  am  five  years 
older  than  I  was  five  years  ago,  when  I  came  here; 
and  that  is  all. 

It  is  true,  fresh  novices  have  arrived,  and  have 
taken  the  irrevocable  vows,  and  fair  young  faces  are 
around  me;  but  my  heart  aches  sometimes  when  I  look 
at  them,  and  think  that  they,  like  the  rest  of  us,  have 
closed  the  door  on  life,  with  all  its  changes,  and  have 
entered  on  that  monotonous  pathway  to  the  grave 
whose  stages  are  simply  growing  old. 


eva's  story.  271 

Some  of  these  novices  come  full  of  high  aspirations 
for  a  religious  life.  They  have  been  told  about  the 
heavenly  Spouse,  who  will  fill  their  consecrated  hearts 
with  pure,  unutterable  joys,  the  world  can  never 
know. 

Many  come  as  sacrifices  to  family  poverty  or  family 
pride,  because  their  noble  parents  are  too  poor  to  main- 
tain them  suitably,  or  in  order  that  their  fortunes  may 
swell  the  dower  of  some  married  sister. 

I  know  what  disappointment  is  before  them  when 
they  learn  that  the  convent  is  but  a  poor,  childish 
mimicry  of  the  world,  with  its  petty  ambitions  and 
rivalries,  but  without  the  life  and  the  love.  I  know 
the  noblest  will  suffer  most,  and  may,  perhaps,  fall  the 
lowest. 

To  narrow,  apathetic  natures,  the  icy  routine  of 
habit  will  more  easily  replace  the  varied  flow  of  life. 
They  will  fit  into  their  harness  sooner,  and  become  as 
much  interested  in  the  gossip  of  the  house  or  the  order, 
the  election  of  superiors,  or  the  scandal  of  some  neigh- 
bouring nunnery,  as  they  would  have  become  in  the 
gossip  of  the  town  or  village  they  would  have  lived  in 
in  the  world. 

But  warm  hearts  and  high  spirits  —  these  will  chafe 
and  struggle,  or  (worse  still!)  dream  they  have  reached 
depths  of  self-abasement  or  soared  to  heights  of  mystical 
devotion,  and  then  awake,  with  bitter  self-reproaches, 
to  find  themselves  too  weak  to  cope  with  some  small 
temptation,  like  Aunt  Agnes. 

These  I  will  help  all  I  can.  But  I  have  learned, 
since  I  came  to  Nimptschen,  that  it  is  a  terrible  and 
perilous  thing  to  take  the  work  of  the  training  of  our 
souls  out  of  God's  hands  into  our  own.     The  pruning 


272      CHRONICLES   OF  THE   SCHONBERG-COTTA  FAMILY. 

knife  in  his  hands  must  sometimes  wound  and  seem  to 
impoverish;  but  in  ours  it  cuts,  and  wounds,  and  im- 
poverishes, and  does  not  prune.  We  can,  indeed,  inflict 
pain  on  ourselves;  but  God  alone  can  make  pain  healing, 
or  suffering  discipline. 

I  can  only  pray  that,  however  mistaken  many  may 
be  in  immuring  themselves  here,  Thou  who  art  the 
Good  Physician  wilt  take  us,  with  all  our  useless  self- 
inflicted  wounds,  and  all  our  wasted,  self-stunted  faculties, 
and  as  we  are  and  as  thou  art,  still  train  us  for  thy- 
self. 

The  infirmary  is  what  interests  me  most.  Having 
secluded  ourselves  from  all  the  joys  and  sorrows  and 
vicissitudes  of  common  life,  we  seem  scarcely  to  have 
left  anything  in  God's  hands,  wherewith  to  try  our 
faith  and  subdue  our  wills  to  his,  except  sickness. 
Bereavements  we  cannot  know  who  have  bereaved  our- 
selves of  all  companionship  with  our  beloved  for  ever- 
more on  earth.  Nor  can  we  know  the  trials  either  of 
poverty  or  of  prosperity,  since  we  can  never  experience 
either;  but,  having  taken  the  vow  of  voluntary  poverty 
on  ourselves,  whilst  we  can  never  call  anything  in- 
dividually our  own,  we  are  freed  from  all  anxieties  by 
becoming  members  of  a  richly- endowed  order. 

Sickness  only  remains  beyond  our  control;  and, 
therefore,  when  I  see  any  of  the  sisterhood  laid  on  the 
bed  of  suffering,  I  think  — 

"God  has  laid  thee  there!"  and  I  feel  more  sure  that 
it  is  the  right  thing. 

I  still  instruct  the  novices;  but  sometimes  the  dreary 
question  comes  to  me  — 

"For  what  am  I  instructing  them?" 


eva's  story.  273 

Life  has  uo  future  for  theru  —  only  a  monotonous 
prolonging  of  the  monotonous  present. 

1  try  to  feel,  "I  am  training  them  for  eternity." 
But  who  can  do  that  but  God,  who  inhabiteth  eternity, 
and  sees  the  links  which  connect  every  moment  of  the 
little  circles  of  time  with  the  vast  circumference  of  the 
everlasting  future? 

But  I  do  my  best.  Catharine  von  Bora,  a  young 
girl  of  sixteen,  who  has  lately  entered  the  convent, 
interests  me  deeply.  There  is  such  strength  in  her 
character  and  such  warmth  in  her  heart.  But,  alas! 
what  scope  is  there  for  these  here? 

Aunt  Agnes  has  not  opened  her  heart  in  any  way 
to  me.  True,  when  I  was  ill,  she  watched  over  me  as 
tenderly  as  Aunt  Cotta  could;  but  when  I  recovered, 
she  seemed  to  repel  all  demonstrations  of  gratitude  and 
affection,  and  went  on  with  that  round  of  penances  and 
disciplines,  which  make  the  nuns  reverence  her  as  so 
especially  saintly. 

Sometimes  I  look  with  longing  to  the  smoke  and 
lights  in  the  village  we  can  see  among  the  trees  from 
the  upper  windows  of  the  convent.  I  know  that  each 
little  wreath  of  smoke  comes  from  the  hearth  of  a  home 
where  there  are  father  and  mother  and  little  children; 
and  the  smoke  wreaths  seems  to  me  to  rise  like  holy 
clouds  of  incense  to  God  our  Father  in  heaven. 

But  the  alms  given  so  liberally  by  the  sisterhood 
are  given  at  the  convent-gate,  so  that  we  never  form 
any  closer  connection  with  the  poor  around  us  than 
that  of  beggars  and  almoners;  and  I  long  to  be  their 
friend. 

Sometimes  I  am  afraid  I  acted  in  impatient  self- 
will  in  leaving  Aunt  Cotta's  home,  and  that  I  should 

Schonberg-Cotta  Family.   I.  IB 


274     CHRONICLES  OF  THE  SCHONBERG-COTTA  FAMILY. 

have  served  God  better  by  remaining  there,  and  that, 
after  all,  my  departure  may  have  left  some  little  blank 
it  would  not  have  been  useless  to  fill.  As  the  girls 
marry,  Aunt  Cotta  might  have  found  me  a  comfort; 
and,  as  "Cousin  Eva,"  I  might  perhaps  have  been 
more  of  a  help  to  Else's  children  than  I  can  be  to  the 
nuns  here  as  Sister  Ave.  But  whatever  might  have 
been,  it  is  impatience  and  rebellion  to  think  of  that 
now,  and  nothing  can  separate  me  from  God  and  his 
love. 

Somehow  or  other,  however,  even  the  "Theologia 
Germanica,1'  and  the  high,  disinterested  communion 
with  God  it  teaches,  seemed  sweeter  to  me,  in  the 
intervals  of  an  interrupted  and  busy  life,  than  as  the 
business  of  this  uninterrupted  leisure.  The  hours  of 
contemplation  were  more  blessed  for  the  very  trials  and 
occupations  which  seemed  to  hinder  them. 

Sometimes  I  feel  as  if  my  heart  also  were  freezing, 
and  becoming  set  and  hard.  I  am  afraid,  indeed,  it 
would,  were  it  not  for  poor  Sister  Beatrice,  who  has 
had  a  paralytic  stroke,  and  is  now  a  constant  inmate 
of  the  infirmary.  She  speaks  at  times  very  incoherently, 
and  cannot  think  at  any  time  connectedly.  But  I  have 
found  a  book  which  interests  her;  it  is  the  Latin  Gospel 
of  St.  Luke,  which  I  am  allowed  to  take  from  the  con- 
vent library  and  translate  to  her.  The  narratives  are 
so  brief  and  simple,  she  can  comprehend  them,  and  she 
never  wearies  of  hearing  them.  The  very  familiarity 
endears  them,  and  to  me  they  are  always  new. 

But  it  is  very  strange  that  there  is  nothing  about 
penance  or  vows  in  it,  or  the  adoration  of  the  blessed 
Virgin.    I  suppose  I  shall  find  that  in  the  other  Gospels, 


EVAS  STORY. 


275 


or  in  the  Epistles,  which  were  written  after  our  Lady's 
assumption  into  heaven. 

Sister  Beatrice  likes  much  to  hear  me  sing  the 
hymn  by  Bernard  of  Clugni,  on  the  perpetuity  of  joy 
in  heaven:* 


Here  brief  is  the  sighing, 
And  brief  is  the  crying, 

For  brief  is  the  life  1 
The  life  there  is  endless, 
The  joy  there  is  endless, 

And  ended  the  strife. 

What  joys  are  in  heaven? 
To  whom  are  they  given  ? 

Ah!  what?  and  to  whom? 
The  stars  to  the  earth-born, 
"Best  robes"  to  the  sin-worn, 

The  crown  for  the  doom ! 

O  country  the  fairest ! 
Our  country,  the  dearest! 

We  press  towards  thee! 
O  Sion  the  golden ! 
Our  eyes  now  are  holden, 

Thy  light  till  we  see: 

Thy  crystalline  ocean, 
Unvexed  by  commotion, 

Thy  fountain  of  life ; 
Thy  deep  peace  unspoken, 
Pure,  sinless,  unbroken,  — 

Thy  peace  beyond  strife: 


Thy  meek  saints  all  glorious, 
Thy  martyrs  victorious, 

Who  suffer  no  more; 
Thy  halls  full  of  singing, 
Thy  hymns  ever  ringing 

Along  thy  safe  shore. 

Like  the  lily  for  whiteness, 
Like  the  jewel  for  brightness, 

Thy  vestments,  O  Bride! 
The  Lamb  ever  with  thee, 
The  Bridegroom  is  with  thee,  ■ 

With  thee  to  abide! 

We  know  not,  we  know  not, 
All  human  words  show  not; 

The  joys  we  may  reach; 
The  mansions  preparing, 
The  joys  for  our  sharing, 

The  welcome  for  each. 

O  Sion  the  golden! 

My  eyes  still  are  holden, 

Thy  light  till  I  see; 
And  deep  in  thy  glory, 
Unveiled  then  before  me, 

My  King,  look  on  thee! 


June  1b16. 
The   whole   of  the  Augustinian  Order   in   Saxony 
has  been  greatly  moved  by  the  visitation  of  Dr.  Martin 
Luther.     He  has  been  appointed  Deputy  Vicar-General 

*  Hie  breve  vivitur,  hie  breve  plangitur,  hie  breve  fletur, 
Non  breve  vivere,  non  breve  plangere,  retribuetur. 
Oretributio!  stat  brevis  actio,  vita  perennis, 
O  retributio !  ccelica  mansio  stat  lue  plenis., 
&c  &c.  &c. 

18* 


276     CHRONICLES   OF  THE   SCHONBERG-COTTA  FAMILY. 

in  the  place  of  Dr.  Staupitz,  who  has  gone  on  a  mission 
to  the  Netherlands,  to  collect  relics  for  the  Elector 
Frederick's  new  church  at  Wittenberg. 

Last  April  Dr.  Luther  visited  the  Monastery  of 
Grimma,  not  far  from  us;  and  through  our  Prioress, 
who  is  connected  with  the  Prior  of  Grimma,  we  hear 
much  about  it. 

He  strongly  recommends  the  study  of  the  Scriptures 
and  of  St.  Augustine,  in  preference  to  every  other 
book,  by  the  brethren  and  sisters  of  his  Order.  We 
have  begun  to  follow  his  advice  in  our  convent,  and  a 
new  impulse  seems  given  to  everything.  I  have  also 
seen  two  beautiful  letters  of  Dr.  Martin  Luther's,  written 
to  two  brethren  of  the  Augustinian  Order.  Both  were 
written  in  April  last,  and  they  have  been  read  by  many 
amongst  us.  The  first  was  to  Brother  George  Spenleiu, 
a  monk  at  Memmingen.  It  begins,  "In  the  name  of 
Jesus  Christ."  After  speaking  of  some  private  pecuniary 
matters,  he  writes:  — 

"As  to  the  rest,  I  desire  to  know  how  it  goes  with 
thy  soul-,  whether,  weary  of  its  own  righteousness,  it 
learns  to  breathe  and  to  trust  in  the  righteousness  of 
Christ.  For  in  our  age  the  temptation  to  presumption 
burns  in  many,  and  chiefly  in  those  who  are  trying 
with  all  their  might  to  be  just  and  good.  Ignorant  of 
the  righteousness  of  God,  which  in  Christ  is  given  to 
us  richly  and  without  price,  they  seek  in  themselves  to 
do  good  works,  so  that  at  last  they  may  have  confidence 
to  stand  before  God,  adorned  with  merits  and  virtues, 
—  which  is  impossible.  Thou,  when  with  us,  wert  of 
this  opinion,  and  so  was  I;  but  now  I  contend  against 
this  error,  although  I  have  not  yet  conquered  it. 

"Therefore,  my  dear  brother,  learn  Christ  and  him 


eva's  story.  277 

crucified-,  learn  to  sing  to  him,  and,  despairing  of  thy- 
self, to  say  to  him,  'Lord  Jesus,  thou  art  my  righteousness, 
but  I  am  thy  sin.  Thou  hast  taken  me  upon  thyself, 
and  given  to  me  what  is  thine;  thou  hast  taken  on  thee 
what  thou  wast  not,  and  hast  given  to  me  what  I  was 
not.'  Take  care  not  to  aspire  to  such  a  purity  that 
thou  shalt  no  longer  seem  to  thyself  a  sinner;  for 
Christ  does  not  dwell  except  in  sinners.  For  this  he 
descended  from  heaven,  where  he  abode  with  the  just, 
that  he  might  abide  with  sinners.  Meditate  on  this 
love  of  his,  and  thou  shalt  drink  in  his  sweet  con- 
solations. For  if,  by  our  labours  and  afflictions,  we 
could  attain  quiet  of  conscience,  why  did  he  die? 
Therefore,  only  in  Him,  by  a  believing  self-despair, 
both  of  thyself  and  of  thy  works,  wilt  thou  find  peace. 
For  he  has  made  thy  sins  his,  and  his  righteousness  he 
has  made  thine." 

Aunt  Agnes  seemed  to  drink  in  these  words  like  a 
patient  in  a  raging  fever.  She  made  me  read  them 
over  to  her  again  and  again,  and  then  translate  and 
copy  them;  and  now  she  carries  them  about  with  her 
everywhere. 

To  me  the  words  that  follow  are  as  precious.  Dr. 
Luther  says,  that  as  Christ  hath  borne  patiently  with 
us  wanderers,  we  should  also  bear  with  others.  "Prostrate 
thyself  before  the  Lord  Jesus,"  he  writes,  "seek  all 
that  thou  lackest.  He  himself  will  teach  thee  all,  even 
to  do  for  others  as  he  has  done  for  thee." 

The  second  letter  was  to  Brother  George  Leiffer  of 
Erfurt.     It  speaks  of  affliction  thus:  — 

"The  cross  of  Christ  is  divided  throughout  the 
whole  world.  To  each  his  portion  comes  in  time,  and 
does  not  fail.    Thou,  therefore,  do  not  seek  to  cast  thy 


278     CHRONICLES   OP  THE  SCHONBERG-COTTA  FAMILY. 

portion  from  thee,  but  rather  receive  it  as  a  holy  relic, 
to  be  enshrined,  not  in  a  gold  or  silver  reliquary,  but 
in  the  sanctuary  of  a  golden,  that  is  a  loving  and 
submissive  heart.  For  if  the  wood  of  the  cross  was  so 
consecrated  by  contact  with  the  flesh  and  blood  of 
Christ  that  it  is  considered  as  the  noblest  of  relics,  how 
much  more  are  injuries,  persecutions,  sufferings,  and  the 
hatred  of  men,  sacred  relics,  consecrated  not  by  the 
touch  of  his  body,  but  by  contact  with  his  most  loving 
heart  and  Godlike  will!  These  we  should  embrace, 
and  bless,  and  cherish,  since  through  him  the  curse  is 
transmuted  into  blessing,  suffering  into  glory,  the  cross 
into  joy." 

Sister  Beatrice  delights  in  these  words,  and  murmurs 
them  over  to  herself  as  I  have  explained  them  to  her. 
"Yes,  I  understand;  this  sickness,  helplessness, —  all  I 
have  lost  and  suffered,  are  sacred  relics  from  my  Saviour; 
not  because  he  forgets,  but  because  he  remembers  me; 
He  remembers  me!     Sister  Ave,  I  am  content." 

And  then  she  likes  me  to  sing  her  favourite  hymn, 
ocsu  dulcis  memoria:  — 


O  Jesus !  thy  sweet  memory 
Can  fill  the  heart  with  ecstasy; 
But  passing  all  things  sweet  that  be, 
Thy  presence,  Lord,  to  me. 

What  hope,  O  Jesus,  thou  canst  render 
To  those  who  other  hopes  surrender! 
To  those  who  seek  thee,  O  how  tender ! 
But  what  to  those  who  find  I 

With  Mary,  ere  the  morning  break, 
Him  at  the  sepulchre  I  seek,  — 
Would  hear  him  to  my  spirit  speak, 
And  see  him  with  my  heart. 


Wherever  I  may  chance  to  be, 
Thee  first  my  heart  desires  to  see;  — 
How  glad  when  I  discover  thee ! 
How  blest  when  I  retain! 

Beyond  all  treasures  is  thy  grace ;  — 
O  when  wilt  thou  thy  steps  retrace, 
And  satisfy  me  with  thy  face, 

And  make  me  wholly  glad? 

Then  come,  Ocome,thouperfectKing, 
Of  boundless  glory  boundless  spring ; 
Arise,  and  fullest  daylight  bring, 
Jesus,  expected  long! 


eva's  story.  279 


Jul)/  1516. 

Aunt  Agnes  has  spoken  to  me  at  last.  Abruptly 
and  sternly,  as  if  more  angry  with  herself  than  re- 
penting or  rejoicing,  she  said  to  me  this  morning, 
"Child,  those  words  of  Dr.  Luther's  have  searched  my 
heart.  I  have  been  trying  all  my  life  to  be  a  saint, 
and  so  to  reach  God.  And  I  have  failed  utterly.  And 
now  I  learn  that  I  am  a  sinner,  and  yet  that  God's 
love  reaches  me.  The  cross,  the  cross  of  Christ,  is  my 
pathway  from  hell  to  heaven.  I  am  not  a  saint.  I 
shall  never  be  a  saint.  Christ  is  the  only  Saint,  the 
Holy  One  of  God;  and  he  has  borne  my  sins,  and  he 
is  my  righteousness.  He  has  done  it  all;  and  I  have 
nothing  left  but  to  give  him  all  the  glory,  and  to  love, 
to  love,  to  love  him  to  all  eternity!  And  I  will  do  it," 
she  added  fervently,  "poor,  proud,  destitute,  and  sinful 
creature  that  I  am.     I  cannot  help  it;  I  must." 

But  strong  and  stern  as  the  words  were,  how 
changed  Aunt  Agnes's  manner!  —  humble  and  simple 
as  a  child's.  And  as  she  left  me  for  some  duty  in  the 
house,  she  kissed  my  forehead,  and  said,  "Ah,  child, 
love  me  a  little,  if  you  can,  —  not  as  a  saint,  but  as 
a  poor,  sinful  old  woman,  who  among  her  worst  sins 
has  counted  loving  thee  too  much,  which  was  certainly, 
after  all,  among  the  least;  love  me  a  little,  Eva,  for 
my  sister's  sake,  whom  you  love  so  much." 


280     CHRONICLES   OF  THE  SCHONBERG-COTTA   FAMILY. 


XIV. 

else's  story. 

August  75/7. 

Yes,  our  little  Gretchen  is  certainly  rather  a  re- 
markable child.  Although  she  is  not  yet  two  years 
old,  she  knows  all  of  us  by  name.  She  tyrannizes 
over  us  all,  except  me.  I  deny  her  many  things  which 
she  cries  for;  except  when  Gottfried  is  present,  who, 
unfortunately,  cannot  bear  to  see  her  unhappy  for  a 
moment,  and  having  (he  says)  had  his  temper  spoilt  in 
infancy  by  a  cross  nurse,  has  no  notion  of  infant  edu- 
cation, except  to  avoid  contradiction.  Christopher,  who 
always  professed  a  supreme  contempt  for  babies,  gives 
her  rides  on  his  shoulder  in  the  most  submissive  man- 
ner. But  best  of  all,  I  love  to  see  her  sitting  on  my 
blind  father's  knee,  and  stroking  his  face  with  a  kind 
of  tender,  pitiful  reverence,  as  if  she  felt  there  was 
something  missing  there. 

I  have  taught  her,  too,  to  say  Fritz's  name,  when 
I  show  her  the  little  lock  I  wear  of  his  hair;  and  to 
kiss  Eva's  picture.  I  cannot  bear  that  they  should  be 
as  lost  or  dead  to  her.  But  I  am  afraid  she  is  per- 
plexed between  Eva's  portrait  and  the  picture  of  the 
Holy  Virgin,  which  I  teach  her  to  bow  and  cross  her 
forehead  before;  because  sometimes  she  tries  to  kiss  the 
picture  of  Our  Lady,  and  to  twist  her  little  fingers  into 
the  sacred  sign  before  Eva's  likeness.  However,  by- 
and-by  she  will  distinguish  better.  And  are  not  Eva 
and  Fritz  indeed  our  family  saints  and  patrons?  I  do 
believe  their  prayers  bring  down  blessings  on  us  all. 


klse'js  story.  281 

For  our  family  has  been  so  much  blessed  lately! 
The  dear  mother's  face  looks  so  bright,  and  has  re- 
gained something  of  its  old  sweet  likeness  to  the  Mother 
of  Mercy.  And  I  am  so  happy,  so  brimful  of  happi- 
ness. And  it  certainly  does  make  me  feel  more  reli- 
gious than  I  did. 

Not  the  home-happiness  only  I  mean,  but  that  best 
blessing  of  all,  that  came  first,  before  I  knew  that 
Gottfried  cared  for  me,  —  the  knowledge  of  the  love 
of  God  to  me,  — that  best  riches  of  all,  without  which 
all  our  riches  would  be  mere  cares  —  the  riches  of  the 
treasury  of  God  freely  opened  to  us  in  Christ  Jesus 
our  Lord, 

Gottfried  is  better  than  I  ever  thought  he  was. 
Perhaps  he  really  grows  better  every  year;  certainly 
he  seems  better  and  dearer  to  me. 

Chriemhild  and  Ulrich  are  to  be  married  very  soon. 
He  is  gone  now  to  see  Franz  von  Sickingen,  and  his 
other  relations  in  the  Rhineland,  and  to  make  arrange- 
ments connected  with  his  marriage.  Last  year  Chriem- 
hild and  Atlantis  stayed  some  weeks  at  the  old  castle 
in  the  Thuringian  Forest,  near  Eisenach.  A  wild  life 
it  seemed  to  be,  from  their  description,  deep  in  the 
heart  of  the  forest,  in  a  lonely  fortress  on  a  rock,  with 
only  a  few  peasants'  huts  in  sight;  and  with  all  kinds 
of  strange  legends  of  demon  huntsmen,  and  elves,  and 
sprites  haunting  the  neighbourhood.  To  me  it  seems 
almost  as  desolate  as  the  wilderness  where  John  the 
Baptist  lived  on  locusts  and  wild  honey;  but  Chriem- 
hild thought  it  delightful.  She  made  acquaintance  with 
some  of  the  poor  peasants,  and  they  seemed  to  think 
her  an  angel,  —  an  opinion  (Atlantis  says)  shared  by 
Ulrich's  old  uncle  and  aunt,  to  say  nothing  of  Ulrich 


282     CHRONICLES   OF  THE   SCHONBERQ-COTTA  FAMILY. 

hirnself.  At  first  the  aged  Aunt  Hermentrude  was 
rather  distant;  hut  on  the  Schbnberg  pedigree  having 
been  duly  tested  and  approved,  the  old  lady  at  length 
considered  herself  free  to  give  vent  to  her  feelings, 
whilst  the  old  knight  courteously  protested  that  he  had 
always  seen  Chriemhild's  pedigree  in  her  face. 

And  Ulrich  says  there  is  one  great  advantage  in 
the  solitude  and  strength  of  his  castle,  —  he  could 
oft'er  an  asylum  at  any  time  to  Dr.  Luther,  who  has  of 
late  become  an  object  of  bitter  hatred  to  some  of  the 
priests. 

Dr.  Luther  is  most  kind  to  our  little  Gretchen, 
whom  he  baptized.  He  says  little  children  often  under- 
stand God  better  than  the  wisest  doctors  of  divinity. 

Thekla  has  experienced  her  first  sorrow.  Her  poor 
little  foundling,  Nix,  is  dead.  For  some  days  the  poor 
creature  had  been  ailing,  and  at  last  he  lay  for  some 
hours  quivering,  as  if  with  inward  convulsions-,  yet  at 
Thekla's  voice  the  dull,  glassy  eyes  would  brighten, 
and  he  would  wag  his  tail  feebly  as  he  lay  on  his  side. 
At  last  he  died;  and  Thekla  was  not  to  be  comforted, 
but  sat  apart  and  shed  bitter  tears.  The  only  thing 
which  cheered  her  was  Christopher's  making  a  grave 
in  the  garden  for  Nix,  under  the  pear  tree  where  I 
used  to  sit  at  embroidery  in  summer,  as  now  she  does. 
It  was  of  no  use  to  try  to  laugh  her  out  of  her  distress. 
Her  lip  quivered  and  her  eyes  filled  with  tears  if  any 
one  attempted  it.  Atlantis  spoke  seriously  to  her  on 
the  duty  of  a  little  girl  of  twelve  beginning  to  put 
away  childish  things;  and  even  the  gentle  mother 
tenderly  remonstrated  and  said  one  day,  when  Dr. 
Luther  had  asked  her  for  her  favourite,  and  had  been 
answered  by  a  burst  of  tears,  "My  child,  if  you  mourn 


else's  story.  283 

bo  for  a  dog,  what  will  you  do  when  real  sorrows 
come?" 

But  Dr.  Luther  seemed  to  understand  Thekla  better 
than  any  of  us,  and  to  take  her  part.  He  said  she 
was  a  child,  and  her  childish  sorrows  were  no  more 
trifles  to  her  than  our  sorrows  are  to  us-,  that  from 
heaven  we  might  probably  look  on  the  fall  of  an  em- 
pire as  of  less  moment  than  we  now  thought  the  death 
of  Thekla's  dog;  yet  that  the  angels  who  look  down 
on  us  from  heaven  do  not  despise  our  little  joys  and 
sorrows,  nor  should  we  those  of  the  little  ones;  or 
words  to  this  effect.  He  has  a  strange  sympathy  with 
the  hearts  of  children.  Thekla  was  so  encouraged  by 
his  compassion,  that  she  crept  close  to  him  and  laid 
her  hand  in  his,  and  said,  with  a  look  of  wistful 
earnestness,  "Will  Nix  rise  again  at  the  last  day? 
Will  there  be  dogs  in  the  other  world?" 

Many  of  us  were  appalled  at  such  an  irreverent 
idea;  but  Dr.  Luther  did  not  seem  to  think  it  irrever- 
ent. He  said,  "We  know  less  of  what  that  other 
world  will  be  than  this  little  one,  or  than  that  babe," 
he  added,  pointing  to  my  little  Gretchen,  "knows  of 
the  empires  or  powers  of  this  world.  But  of  this  we 
are  sure,  the  world  to  come  will  be  no  empty,  lifeless 
waste.  See  how  full  and  beautiful  the  Lord  God  has 
made  all  things  in  this  passing,  perishing  world  of 
heaven  and  earth!  How  much  more  beautiful,  then, 
will  he  make  that  eternal  incorruptible  world!  God 
will  make  new  heavens  and  a  new  earth.  All  poison- 
ous, and  malicious,  and  hurtful  creatures  will  be 
banished  thence,  —  all  that  our  sin  has  ruined.  All 
creatures  will  not  only  be  harmless,  but  lovely,  and 
pleasant  and  joyful,  so  that  we  might  play  with  them. 


284     CHRONICLES    OF   THE   SCHOJSBEKG-COTTA  FAMILY. 

'The  sucking  child  shall  play  on  the  hole  of  the  asp, 
and  the  weaned  child  shall  put  his  hand  on  the  cocka- 
trice' den.'  Why,  then,  should  there  not  be  little  dogs 
in  the  new  earth,  whose  skin  might  be  fair  as  gold, 
and  their  hair  as  bright  as  precious  stones?"* 

Certainly,  in  Thekla's  eyes,  from  that  moment  there 
has  been  no  doctor  of  divinity  like  Dr.  Luther. 

Torgau,  Xovember  10,  1316. 

The  plague  is  at  Wittenberg.  We  have  all  taken 
refuge  here.  The  university  is  scattered,  and  many, 
also,  of  the  Augustinian  monks. 

Dr.  Luther  remains  in  the  convent  at  Wittenberg. 
We  have  seen  a  copy  of  a  letter  of  his,  dated  the  2"6th 
October,  and  addressed  to  the  Venerable  Father  John 
Lange,  Prior  of  Erfurt  Monastery. 

"Health.  I  have  need  of  two  secretaries  or  chan- 
cellors, since  all  day  long  I  do  nothing  but  write 
letters;  and  I  know  not  whether,  always  writing,  I 
may  not  sometimes  repeat  the  same  things.  Thou  wilt 
see. 

"I  am  convent  lecturer;  reader  at  meals;  I  am 
desired  to  be  daily  parish  preacher;  I  am  director  of 
studies,  vicar  of  the  prior,  («".  e.,  prior  eleven  times  over,) 
inspector  of  the  fish-ponds  at  Litzkau,  advocate  of  the 
cause  of  the  people  of  Herzberg  at  Torgau,  lecturer  on 
Paul  and  on  the  Psalms;  besides  what  I  have  said 
already  of  my  constant  correspondence.  I  have  rarely 
time  to  recite  my  Canonical  Hours,  to  say  nothing 
of  my  own  particular  temptations  from  the  world, 
the  flesh,  and  the  devil.  See  what  a  man  of  leisure 
I  am! 

*  Luther's  Tischreden. 


ELSE'S   STORY.  285 

"Concerning  Brother  John  Metzel  I  believe  you 
have  already  received  my  opinion.  I  will  see,  however, 
what  I  can  do.  How  can  you  think  I  can  find  room 
for  your  Sardanapaluses  and  Sybarites?  If  you  have 
educated  them  ill,  you  must  bear  with  those  you  have 
educated  ill.  I  have  enough  useless  brethren-,  —  if, 
indeed,  any  are  useless  to  a  patient  heart.  I  am  per- 
suaded that  the  useless  may  become  more  useful  than 
those  who  are  the  most  useful  now.  Therefore  bear 
with  them  for  the  time. 

"I  think  I  have  already  written  to  you  about  the 
brethren  you  sent  me.  Some  I  have  sent  to  Magister 
Spangenburg,  as  they  requested,  to  save  their  breathing 
this  pestilential  air.  With  two  from  Cologne  I  felt 
such  sympathy,  and  thought  so  much  of  their  abilities, 
that  I  have  retained  them,  although  at  much  expense. 
Twenty-two  priests,  forty-two  youths,  and  in  the  uni- 
versity altogether  forty-two  persons  are  supported  out 
of  our  poverty.     But  the  Lord  will  provide. 

"You  say  that  yesterday  you  began  to  lecture  on 
the  Sentences.  To-morrow  I  begin  the  Epistle  to  the 
Gralatians;  although  I  fear  that,  with  the  plague  among 
us  as  it  is,  I  shall  not  be  able  to  continue.  The  plague 
has  taken  away  already  two  or  three  among  us,  but 
not  all  in  one  day;  and  the  son  of  our  neighbour 
Faber,  yesterday  in  health,  to-day  is  dead;  and  another 
is  infected.  What  shall  I  say?  It  is  indeed  here,  and 
begins  to  rage  with  great  craelty  and  suddenness, 
especially  among  the  young.  You  would  persuade  mo 
and  Master  Bartholomew  to  take  refuge  with  you.  Why 
should  I  flee?  I  hope  the  world  would  not  collapse 
if  Brother  Martin  fell.  If  the  pestilence  spreads,  I  will 
iudeed  disperse  the  monks  throughout  the  land.     As 


286     CHRONICLES  OF  THE  JSCHUJSBERG-COTTA  FAMILY. 

for  me,  I  have  been  placid  here.  My  obedience  as  a 
monk  does  not  suffer  me  to  fly;  since  what  obedience 
required  once  it  demands  still.  Not  that  I  do  not  fear 
death  —  (I  am  not  the  Apostle  Paul  but  only  the  reader 
of  the  Apostle  Paul)  —  but  I  hope  the  Lord  will  deliver 
me  from  my  fear. 

"Farewell;  and  be  mindful  of  us  in  this  day  of  the 
visitation  of  the  Lord,  to  whom  be  glory." 

This  letter  has  strengthened  me  and  many.  Yes, 
if  it  had  been  our  duty,  I  trust,  like  Dr.  Luther,  we 
should  have  had  courage  to  remain.  The  courage  of 
his  act  strengthens  us;  and  also  the  confession  of  fear 
in  his  words.  It  does  not  seem  a  fear  which  hath  tor- 
ment, or  which  fetters  his  spirit.  It  does  not  even 
crush  his  cheerfulness.  It  is  a  natural  fear  of  dying, 
which  I  also  cannot  overcome.  From  me,  then,  as 
surely  from  him,  when  God  sees  it  time  to  die,  He  will 
doubtless  remove  the  dread  of  death. 

This  season  of  the  pestilence  recalls  so  much  to  me 
of  what  happened  when  the  plague  last  visited  us  at 
Eisenach! 

We  have  lost  some  since  then,  —  if  I  ought  to  call 
Eva  and  Fritz  lost.  But  how  my  life  has  been  en- 
riched! My  husband,  our  little  Gretchen;  and  then  so 
much  outward  prosperity!  All  that  pressure  of  poverty 
and  daily  care  entirely  gone,  and  so  much  wherewith 
to  help  others!  And  yet,  am  I  so  entirely  free  from 
care  as  I  ought  to  be?  Am  I  not  'even  at  times  more 
burdened  with  it? 

When  first  I  married,  and  had  Gottfried  on  whom 
to  unburden  every  perplexity,  and  riches  which  seemed 
to  me  inexhaustible,  instead  of  poverty,  I  thought  I 
should  never  know  care  afram. 


else's  story.  287 

But  is  it  so?  Have  not  the  very  things  themselves, 
in  their  possession,  become  cares?  When  I  hear  of 
these  dreadful  wars  with  the  Turks,  and  of  the  insur- 
rections and  disquiets  in  various  parts,  and  look  round 
on  our  pleasant  home,  and  gardens,  and  fields,  I  think 
how  terrible  it  would  be  again  to  be  plunged  into 
poverty,  or  that  Gretchen  ever  should  be;  so  that 
riches  themselves  become  cares.  It  makes  me  think 
of  what  a  good  man  once  told  me:  that  the  word  in 
the  Bible  which  is  translated  "rich,"  in  speaking  of 
Abraham,  in  other  places  is  translated  "heavy;"  so  that 
instead  of  reading,  "Abraham  left  Egypt  rich  in  cattle 
and  silver  and  gold,"  we  might  read  "heavy  in  cattle, 
silver,  and  gold." 

Yes,  we  are  on  a  pilgrimage  to  the  Holy  City;  we 
are  in  flight  from  an  evil  world;  and  too  often  riches 
are  weights  which  hinder  our  progress. 

I  find  it  good,  therefore,  to  be  here  in  the  small, 
humble  house  we  have  taken  refuge  in  —  Gottfried, 
Gretchen,  and  I.  The  servants  are  dispersed  elsewhere; 
and  it  lightens  my  heart  to  feel  how  well  we  can  do 
without  luxuries  which  were  beginning  to  seem  like 
necessaries.  Doctor  Luther's  words  come  to  my  mind: 
"The  covetous  enjoy  what  they  have  as  little  as  what 
they  have  not.  They  cannot  even  rejoice  in  the  sun- 
shine. They  think  not  what  a  noble  gift  the  light 
is  —  what  an  inexpressibly  great  treasure  the  sun  is, 
which  shines  freely  on  all  the  world." 

Yes,  God's  common  gifts  are  His  most  precious; 
and  His  most  precious  gifts  —  even  life  itself  —  have 
no  root  in  themselves.  Not  that  they  are  without  root; 
they  are  better  rooted  in  the  depths  of  His  unchangeable 
love. 


288     CHRONICLES   OF  THE  SCHONBEItG-COTTA  FAMILY. 

It  is  well  to  be  taught,  by  such  a  visitation  even 
as  this  pestilence,  the  utter  insecurity  of  everything 
here.  "If  the  ship  itself,"  as  Gottfried  says,  "is  ex- 
posed to  shipwreck,  who,  then,  can  secure  the  cargo?" 
Henceforth  let  me  be  content  with  the  only  security 
Doctor  Luther  says  God  will  give  us  —  the  security 
of  His  presence  and  care:     "/  will  never  leave  thee." 

Wittenberg,  June  1517. 

We  are  at  home  once  more;  and,  thank  God!  our 
two  households  are  undiminished,  save  by  one  death  — 
that  of  our  youngest  sister,  the  baby  when  we  left 
Eisenach.  The  professors  and  students  also  have 
returned.  Dr.  Luther,  who  remained  here  all  the 
time,  is  preaching  with  more  force  and  clearness  than 
ever. 

The  town  is  greatly  divided  in  opinion  about  him. 
Doctor  Tetzel,  the  great  Papal  Commissioner  for  the 
sale  of  indulgences,  has  established  his  red  cross,  an- 
nouncing the  sale  of  pardons,  for  some  months,  at 
Juttrbogk  and  Zerbst,  not  far  from  Wittenberg. 

Numbers  of  the  townspeople,  alarmed,  I  suppose, 
by  the  pestilence  into  anxiety  about  their  souls,  have 
repaired  to  Dr.  Tetzel,  and  returned  with  the  purchased 
tickets  of  indulgence. 

I  have  always  been  perplexed  as  to  what  the  in- 
dulgences really  give.  Christopher  has  terrible  stories 
about  the  money  paid  for  them  being  spent  by  Dr. 
Tetzel  and  others  on  taverns  and  feasts;  and  Gottfried 
says,  "It  is  a  bargain  between  the  priests,  who  love 
money,  and  the  people,  who  love  sin." 

Yesterday  morning  I  saw  one  of  the  letters  of  in- 
dulgence for  the  first  time.     A  neighbour  of  ours,  the 


ELSE'S  STORY.  289 

wife  of  a  miller,  whose  weights  have  been  a  little 
suspected  in  the  town,  was  in  a  state  of  great  indigna- 
tion when  I  went  to  purchase  some  flour  of  her. 

"See!"  she  said;  "this  Dr.  Luther  will  be  wiser 
than  the  Pope  himself.  He  has  refused  to  admit  my 
husband  to  the  Holy  Sacrament  unless  he  repents  and 
confesses  to  him,  although  he  took  his  certificate  in 
his  hand." 

She  gave  it  to  me,  and  I  read  it.  Certainly,  if  the 
doctors  of  divinity  disagree  about  the  value  of  these 
indulgences,  Dr.  Tetzel  has  no  ambiguity  nor  uncer- 
tainty in  his  language. 

"I,"  says  the  letter,  "absolve  thee  from  all  the  ex- 
cesses, sins,  and  crimes  which  thou  hast  committed, 
however  great  and  enormous  they  may  be.  I  remit 
for  thee  the  pains  thou  mightest  have  had  to  endure  in 
purgatory.  I  restore  thee  to  participation  in  the  sacra- 
ments. I  incorporate  thee  afresh  into  the  communion 
of  the  Church.  I  re-establish  thee  in  the  innocence 
and  purity  in  which  thou  wast  at  the  time  of  thy 
baptism.  So  that,  at  the  moment  of  thy  death,  the 
gate  by  which  souls  pass  into  the  place  of  torments 
will  be  shut  upon  thee;  while,  on  the  contrary,  that 
which  leads  to  the  paradise  of  joy  will  be  open  to 
thee.  And  if  thou  art  not  called  on  to  die  soon,  this 
grace  will  remain  unaltered  for  the  time  of  thy  latter 
end. 

"In  the  name  of  the  Father,  and  of  the  Son,  and 
of  the  Holy  Ghost. 

"Friar  John  Tetzel,  Commissary,  has 
signed  it  with  his  own  hand." 

"To  think,"  said  my  neighbour,  "of  the  Pope  pro- 
mising  my  Franz   admittance   into   paradise;   and  Dr. 

Schonberg-Cotta  Family.   I,  19 


290     CHRONICLES  OP   THE   SCHONBERGCOTTA  FAMILY. 

Luther  will  not  even  admit  him  to  the  altar  of  the 
parish  church!  And  after  spending  such  a  sum  on  it! 
for  the  friar  must  surely  have  thought  my  husband 
better  off  than  he  is,  or  he  would  not  have  demanded 
gold  of  poor  struggling  people  like  us." 

"But  if  the  angels  at  the  gate  of  paradise  should 
be  of  the  same  mind  as  Dr.  Luther?"  I  suggested. 
"Would  it  not  be  better  to  find  that  out  here  than 
there?" 

"It  is  impossible,"  she  replied;  "have  we  not  the 
Holy  Father's  own  word?  and  did  we  not  pay  a 
whole  golden  florin?  It  is  impossible  it  can  be  in  vain." 

"Put  the  next  florin  in  your  scales  instead  of  in 
Dr.  Tetzel's  chest,  neighbour,"  said  a  student,  laughing, 
as  he  heard  her  loud  and  angry  words;  "it  may  weigh 
heavier  with  your  flour  than  against  your  sins." 

I  left  them  to  finish  the  discussion. 

Gottfried  says  it  is  quite  true  that  Dr.  Luther  in 
the  confessional  in  the  city  church  has  earnestly  pro- 
tested to  many  of  his  penitents  against  their  trusting 
to  these  certificates,  and  has  positively  refused  to  suffer 
any  to  communicate,  except  on  their  confessing  their 
sins,  and  promising  to  forsake  them,  whether  provided 
with  indulgences  or  not. 

In  his  sermon  to  the  people  last  year  on  the  Ten 
Commandments,  he  told  them  forgiveness  was  freely 
given  to  the  penitent  by  God,  and  was  not  to  be  pur- 
chased at  any  price,  least  of  all  with  money. 

Wittenberg,  July  48. 

The  whole  town  is  in  a  ferment  to-day,  on  account 
of  Dr.  Luther's  sermon  yesterday,  preached  before  the 
Elector  in  the  Castle  church. 


klse's  story.  291 

The  congregation  was  very  large,  composed  of  the 
court,  students,  and  townspeople. 

Not  a  child  or  ignorant  peasant  there  but  could 
understand  the  preacher's  words.  The  Elector  had 
procured  especial  indulgences  from  the  pope  in  aid  of 
his  church,  but  Dr.  Luther  made  no  exception,  in  order 
to  conciliate  him.  He  said  the  Holy  Scriptures  nowhere 
demand  of  us  any  penalty  or  satisfaction  for  our  sins. 
God  gives  and  forgives  freely  and  without  price,  out 
of  his  unutterable  grace;  and  lays  on  the  forgiven  no 
other  duty  than  true  repentance  and  sincere  conversion 
of  the  heart,  resolution  to  bear  the  cross  of  Christ,  and 
to  do  all  the  good  we  can.  He  declared  also  that  it 
would  be  better  to  give  money  freely  towards  the 
building  of  St.  Peter's  Church  at  Eome,  than  to  bargain 
with  alms  for  indulgences;  that  it  was  more  pleasing 
to  God  to  give  to  the  poor,  than  to  buy  these  letters, 
which,  he  said,  would  at  the  utmost  do  nothing  more 
for  any  man  than  remit  mere  ecclesiastical  penances. 

As  we  returned  from  the  church  together,  Gottfried 
said,  — 

"The  battle-cry  is  sounded  then  at  last!  The  wolf 
has  assailed  Dr.  Luther's  own  flock,  and  the  shepherd 
is  roused.  The  battle-cry  is  sounded,  Else,  but  the  battle 
is  scarcely  begun." 

And  when  we  described  the  sermon  to  our  grand- 
mother, she  murmured,  — 

"It  sounds  to  me,  children,  like  an  old  story  of  my 
childhood.  Have  I  not  heard  such  words  half  a  century 
since  in  Bohemia?  and  have  I  not  seen  the  lips  which 
spoke  them  silenced  in  flames  and  blood?  Neither  Dr. 
Luther  nor  any  of  you  know  whither  you  are  going. 
Thank  God,  I  am   soon   going  to   him  who  died  for 

19* 


292     CHRONICLES  OF  THE   SCHONBERGCOTTA  FAMILY. 

speaking  just  such  words?  Thank  God  I  hear  them 
again  before  I  die!  I  have  doubted  long  about  them 
and  about  everything;  how  could  I  dare  to  think  a 
few  proscribed  men  right  against  the  whole  Church? 
But  since  these  old  words  cannot  be  hushed,  but  rise 
from  the  dead  again,  I  think  there  must  be  life  in 
them;  eternal  life.  Children,"  she  concluded,  "tell  me 
when  Dr.  Luther  preaches  again;  I  will  hear  him  be- 
fore I  die,  that  I  may  tell  your  grandfather,  when  I 
meet  him,  the  old  truth  is  not  dead.  I  think  it  would 
give  him  another  joy,  even  before  the  throne  of  God." 

Wittenberg,  August. 

Christopher  has  returned  from  Juterbogk.  He  saw 
there  a  great  pile  of  burning  faggots,  which  Dr.  Tetzel 
had  caused  to  be  kindled  in  the  market-place,  "to  burn 
the  heretics,"  he  said. 

We  laughed  as  he  related  this,  and  also  at  the 
furious  threats  and  curses  that  had  been  launched  at 
Dr.  Luther  from  the  pulpit  in  front  of  the  iron  money- 
chest.  But  our  grandmother  said,  "It  is  no  jest, 
children;  they  have  done  it,  and  they  will  do  it  again 
yet!" 

Wittenberg,  November  1,  1517. 
All  Saints'  Day. 

Yesterday  evening,  as  I  sat  at  the  window  with 
Gottfried  in  the  late  twilight,  hushing  Gretchen  to  sleep, 
we  noticed  Dr.  Luther  walking  rapidly  along  the  street 
towards  the  Castle  church.  His  step  was  firm  and 
quick,  and  he  seemed  too  full  of  thought  to  observe 
anything  as  he  passed.  There  was  something  unusual 
in  his  bearing,  which  made  my  husband  call  my  atten- 
tion to  him.     His  head  was  erect  and  slightly  thrown 


else's  story.  293 

back,  as  when  he  preaches.  He  had  a  large  packet  of 
papers  in  his  hand,  and  although  he  was  evidently 
absorbed  with  some  purpose,  he  had  more  the  air  of  a 
general  moving  to  a  battle-field  than  of  a  theologian 
buried  in  meditation. 

This  morning,  as  we  went  to  the  early  mass  of  the 
festival,  we  saw  a  great  crowd  gathered  around  the 
doors  of  the  Castle  church;  not  a  mob,  however,  but 
an  eager  throng  of  well-dressed  men,  professors,  citizens, 
and  students;  those  within  the  circle  reading  some 
writing  which  was  posted  on  the  door,  whilst  around, 
the  crowd  was  broken  into  little  knots,  in  eager  but 
not  loud  debate. 

Gottfried  asked  what  had  happened. 

"It  is  only  some  Latin  theses  against  the  indul- 
gences, by  Dr.  Luther,"  replied  one  of  the  students, 
"inviting  a  disputation  on  the  subject." 

I  was  relieved  to  hear  that  nothing  was  the  matter, 
and  Gottfried  and  I  quietly  proceeded  to  the  service. 

"It  is  only  an  affair  of  the  university,"  I  said.  "I 
was  afraid  it  was  some  national  disaster,  an  invasion 
of  the  Turks,  or  some  event  in  the  Elector's  family." 

As  we  returned,  however,  the  crowd  had  increased, 
and  the  debate  seemed  to  be  becoming  warm  among 
some  of  them.  One  of  the  students  was  translating  the 
Latin  into  German  for  the  benefit  of  the  unlearned,  and 
we  paused  to  listen. 

What  he  read  seemed  to  me  very  true,  but  not  at 
all  remarkable.  We  had  often  heard  Dr.  Luther  say 
and  even  preach  similar  things.  At  the  moment  we 
came  up  the  words  the  student  was  reading  were,  — 

"It  is  a  great  error  for  one  to  think  to  make  satis- 
faction for  his  sins,   in  that  God  always  forgives  gra- 


294     CHRONICLES   OF   THE   SCIIONBERG-COTTA  FAMILY. 

tuitously  and  from  his  boundless  grace,  requiring  no- 
thing in  return  but  holy  living." 

This  sentence  I  remember  distinctly,  because  it  was 
so  much  like  what  we  had  heard  him  preach.  Other 
propositions  followed,  such  as  that  it  was  very  doubtful 
if  the  indulgences  could  deliver  souls  from  purgatory, 
and  that  it  was  better  to  give  alms  than  to  buy  in- 
dulgences. But  why  these  statements  should  collect 
such  a  crowd,  and  excite  such  intense  interest,  I  could 
not  quite  understand,  unless  it  was  because  they  were 
in  Latin. 

One  sentence,  I  observed,  aroused  very  mingled 
feelings  in  the  crowd.  It  was  the  declaration  that  the 
Holy  Scriptures  alone  could  settle  any  controversy, 
and  that  all  the  scholastic  teachers  together  could  not 
give  authority  to  one  doctrine. 

The  students  and  many  of  the  citizens  received  this 
announcement  with  enthusiastic  applause,  and  some  of 
the  professors  testified  a  quiet  approval  of  it;  but  others 
of  the  doctors  shook  their  heads,  and  a  few  retired  at 
once,  murmuring  angrily  as  they  went. 

At  the  close  came  a  declaration  by  Dr.  Luther, 
that  "whatever  some  unenlightened  and  morbid  people 
might  say,  he  was  no  heretic." 

"Why  should  Dr.  Luther  think  it  necessary  to  con- 
clude with  a  declaration  that  he  is  no  heretic?"  I  said 
to  Gottfried  as  we  walked  home.  "Can  anything  be 
more  full  of  •respect  for  the  Pope  and  the  Church  than 
many  of  these  theses  are?  And  why  should  they  ex- 
cite so  much  attention?  Dr.  Luther  s  ys  no  more  than 
so  many  of  us  think!" 

"True,  Else,"  replied  Gottfried,  gravely;  "but  to 
know  how  to   say  what  other  people  only  think,   ia 


ELSE'S  STOKY.  295 

what  makes  men  poets  and  sages;  and  to  dare  to  say 
what  others  only  dare  to  think,  makes  men  martyrs  or 
reformers,  or  both." 

November  20. 

It  is  wonderful  the  stir  these  theses  make.  Chris- 
topher cannot  get  them  printed  fast  enough.  Both  the 
Latin  and  German  printing-presses  are  engaged,  for 
they  have  been  translated,  and  demands  come  for  them 
from  every  part  of  Germany. 

Dr.  Tetzel,  they  say,  is  furious,  and  many  of  the 
prelates  are  uneasy  as  to  the  result;  the  new  bishop 
has  dissuaded  Dr.  Luther  from  publishing  an  explanation 
of  them.  It  is  reported  that  the  Elector  Frederick  is 
not  quite  pleased,  fearing  the  effect  on  the  new  uni- 
versity, still  in  its  infancy. 

Students,  however,  are  crowding  to  the  town,  and 
to  Dr.  Luther's  lectures,  more  than  ever.  He  is  the 
hero  of  the  youth  of  Germany. 

But  none  are  more  enthusiastic  about  him  than  our 
grandmother.  She  insisted  on  being  taken  to  church 
on  All  Saints'  Day,  and  tottering  up  the  aisle,  took 
her  place  immediately  under  Dr.  Luther's  pulpit,  facing 
the  congrega'ion. 

She  had  eyes  or  ears  for  none  but  him.  When  he 
came  down  the  pulpit  stairs  she  grasped  his  hand,  and 
faltered  out  a  broken  blessing.  And  after  she  came 
home  she  sat  a  long  time  in  silence,  occasionally  brush- 
ing away  tears. 

When  Gottfried  and  I  took  leave  for  the  night, 
she  held  one  of  our  hands  in  each  of  hers,  and 
said,  — 

"Children!  be  braver  than  I  have  been;  that  man 
preaches  the  truth  for  which  my  husband  died.     God 


296     CHRONICLES  OF  THE  SCHONBERG-COTTA  FAMILY. 

sends  him  to  you.  Be  faithful  to  him.  Take  heed 
that  you  forsake  him  not.  It  is  not  given  to  every 
one  as  to  me  to  have  the  light  they  forsook  in  youth 
restored  to  them  in  old  age.  To  me  his  words  are 
like  voices  from  the  dead.    They  are  worth  dying  for." 

My  mother  is  not  so  satisfied.  She  likes  what  Dr. 
Luther  says,  hut  she  is  afraid  what  Aunt  Agnes  might 
think  of  it.  She  thinks  he  speaks  too  violently  some- 
times. She  does  not  like  any  one  to  be  pained.  She 
cannot  herself  much  like  the  way  they  sell  the  indul- 
gences, hut  she  hopes  Dr.  Tetzel  means  well,  and  she 
has  no  doubt  that  the  Pope  knows  best;  and  she  is 
convinced  that  in  their  hearts  all  good  people  mean 
the  same,  only  she  is  afraid,  in  the  heat  of  discussion, 
every  one  will  go  further  than  any  one  intends,  and 
so  there  will  be  a  great  deal  of  bad  feeling.  She 
thought  it  was  quite  right  of  Dr.  Luther  quietly  to  ad- 
monish any  of  his  penitents  who  were  imagining  they 
could  be  saved  without  repentance;  but  why  he  should 
excite  all  the  town  in  this  way  by  these  theses  she 
could  not  understand;  especially  on  All  Saints'  Day, 
when  so  many  strangers  came  from  the  country,  and 
the  holy  relics  were  exhibited,  and  every  one  ought  to 
be  absorbed  with  their  devotions. 

"Ah,  little  mother,"  said  my  father,  "women  are 
too  tender-hearted  for  ploughmen's  work.  You  could 
never  bear  to  break  up  the  clods,  and  tear  up  all  the 
pretty  wild  flowers.  But  when  the  harvest  comes  we 
will  set  you  to  bind  up  the  sheaves,  or  to  glean  beside 
the  reapers.  No  rough  hands  of  men  will  do  that  so 
well  as  yours." 

And  Gottfried  said  his  vow  as  doctor  of  divinity 
makes  it  as  much  Dr.  Luther's  plain  duty  to  teach  true 


else's  story.  297 

divinity,  as  his  priestly  vows  oblige  him  to  guard  his 
flock  from  error  and  sin.  Gottfried  says  we  have 
fallen  on  stormy  times.  For  him  that  may  be  best, 
and  by  his  side  all  is  well  for  me.  Besides,  I  am 
accustomed  to  rough  paths.  But  when  I  look  on  our 
little  tender  Gretchen,  as  her  dimpled  cheek  rests 
flushed  with  sleep  on  her  pillow,  I  cannot  help  wishing 
the  battle  might  not  begin  in  her  time. 

Dr.  Luther  counted  the  cost  before  he  affixed  these 
theses  to  the  church  door.  It  was  this  which  made 
him  do  it  so  secretly,  without  consulting  any  of  his 
friends.  He  knew  there  was  risk  in  it,  and  he  nobly 
resolved  not  to  involve  any  one  else  —  Elector,  pro- 
fessor, or  pastor  —  in  the  danger  he  incurred  without 
hesitation  for  himself. 

December  1517. 

In  one  thing  we  are  all  agreed,  and  that  is  in  our 
delight  in  Dr.  Luther's  lectures  on  St.  Paul's  Epistle 
to  the  Galatians.  Gottfried  heard  them  and  took  notes, 
and  reported  them  to  us  in  my  father's  house.  We 
gather  around  him,  all  of  us,  in  the  winter  evenings, 
while  he  reads  those  inspiring  words  to  us.  Never,  I 
think,  were  words  like  them.  Yesterday  be  was  read- 
ing to  us,  for  the  twentieth  time,  what  Dr.  Luther 
said  on  the  words,  "Who  loved  me,  and  gave  himself 
for  me." 

"Read  with  vehemency,"  he  says,  "those  words 
'me,'  and  'for  me.'  Print  this  'me'  in  thy  heart,  not 
doubting  that  thou  art  of  the  number  to  whom  this 
'me'  belongeth;  also,  that  Christ  hath  not  only  loved 
Peter  and  Paul,  and  given  himself  for  them,  but  that 
the  same  grace  also  which  is  comprehended  in  this 
'me,'   as  well  pertaineth  and  cometh  unto  us  as  unto 


2»fe     CHRONICLES   OF   THE   SCHoNBERG-COTTA  FAMILY. 

them.  For  as  we  cannot  deny  that  we  are  all  sinners, 
all  lost;  so  we  cannot  deny  that  Christ  died  for  our 
sins.  Therefore,  when  I  feel  and  confess  myself  to  be 
a  sinner,  why  should  I  not  say  that  I  am  made  righte- 
ous through  the  righteousness  of  Christ,  especially 
when  I  hear  He  loved  me  and  gave  himself  for 
me?" 

And  then  my  mother  asked  for  the  passages  she 
most  delights  in:  "0  Christ,  I  am  thy  sin,  thy  curse, 
thy  wrath  of  God,  thy  hell;  and  contrariwise,  thou  art 
my  righteousness,  my  blessing,  my  life,  my  grace  of 
God,  my  heaven." 

And  again,  when  he  speaks  of  Christ  being  "made 
a  curse  for  us,  the  unspotted  and  undefiled  Lamb  of 
God  wrapped  in  our  sins,  God  not  laying  our  sins 
upon  us,  but  upon  his  Son,  that  he,  bearing  the  punish- 
ment thereof,  might  be  our  peace,  that  by  his  stripes 
we  might  be  healed." 

And  again:  — 

"Sin  is  a  mighty  conqueror,  which  devoureth  all 
mankind ,  learned  and  unlearned ,  holy ,  wise ,  and  mighty 
men.  This  tyrant  flieth  upon  Christ,  and  will  needs 
swallow  him  up  as  he  doth  all  other.  But  he  seeth 
not  that  Christ  is  a  person  of  invincible  and  everlasting 
righteousness.  Therefore  in  this  combat  sin  must  needs 
be  vanquished  and  killed;  and  righteousness  must  over- 
come, live,  and  reign.  So  in  Christ  all  sin  is  vanquished, 
killed,  and  buried;  and  righteousness  remaineth  a  con- 
queror, and  reigneth  for  ever. 

"In  like  manner  Death,  which  is  an  omnipotent 
queen  and  empress  of  the  whole  world,  killing  kings, 
princes,  and  all  men,  doth  mightily  encounter  with 
Life,  thinking  utterly  to  overcome  it  and  to  swallow 


ELSE'S   STORY.  299 

it  up.  But  because  the  Life  was  immortal,  therefore 
when  it  was  overcome,  it  nevertheless  overcame,  van- 
quishing and  killing  Death.  Death,  therefore,  through 
Christ,  is  vanquished  and  abolished,  so  that  now  it  is 
but  a  painted  death,  which,  robbed  of  its  sting,  can  no 
more  hurt  those  that  believe  in  Christ,  who  is  become 
the  death  of  death. 

"So  the  curse  hath  the  like  conflict  with  the  blessing, 
and  would  condemn  and  bring  it  to  nought-,  but  it  can- 
not. For  the  blessing  is  divine  and  everlasting,  there- 
fore the  curse  must  needs  give  place.  For  if  the  blessing 
in  Christ  could  be  overcome,  then  would  God  himself 
be  overcome.  But  this  is  impossible-,  therefore  Christ, 
the  power  of  God,  righteousness,  blessing,  grace,  and 
life,  overcometh  and  destroyeth  those  monsters,  sin, 
death,  and  the  curse,  without  war  and  weapons,  in 
this  our  body,  so  that  they  can  no  more  hurt  those  that 
believe." 

Such  truths  are  indeed  worth  battling  for;  but  who, 
save  the  devil,  would  war  against  them?  I  wonder 
what  Fritz  would  think  of  it  all. 

Wittenbrkg,  February  4518. 

Christopher  returned  yesterday  evening  from  the 
market-place,  where  the  students  have  been  burning 
Tetzel's  theses,  which  he  wrote  in  answer  to  Dr. 
Luther's.  Tetzel  hides  behind  the  papal  authority, 
and  accuses  Dr.  Luther  of  assailing  the  Holy  Father 
himself. 

But  Dr.  Luther  says  nothing  shall  ever  make  him 
a  heretic-,  that  he  will  recognise  the  voice  of  the  Pope 
as  the  voice  of  Christ  himself.  The  students  kindled 
this  conflagration  in  the  market-place  entirely  on  their 
own  responsibility.     They  are  full  of  enthusiasm  for 


300     CHRONICLES   OF  THE  SCHONBERG-COTTA  FAMILY. 

Dr.  Martin ,  and  of  indignation  against  Tetzel  and  the 
Dominicans. 

"Who  can  doubt,"  said  Christopher,  "how  the  con- 
flict will  end,  between  all  learning  and  honesty  and 
truth  on  the  one  side,  and  a  few  contemptible  avaricious 
monks  on  the  other?"  And  he  proceeded  to  describe 
to  us  the  conflagration  and  the  sayings  of  the  students 
with  as  much  exultation  as  if  it  had  been  a  victory 
over  Tetzel  and  the  indulgence-mongers  themselves. 

"But  it  seems  to  me,"  I  said,  "that  Dr.  Luther  is 
not  so  much  at  ease  about  it  as  you  are.  I  have  no- 
ticed lately  that  he  looks  grave,  and  at  times  very  sad. 
He  does  not  seem  to  think  the  victory  won." 

"Young  soldiers,"  said  Gottfried,  "on  the  eve  of 
their  first  battle  may  be  as  blithe  as  on  the  eve  of  a 
tournay.  Veterans  are  grave  before  the  battle.  Their 
courage  comes  with  the  conflict.  It  will  be  thus,  I  be- 
lieve, with  Dr.  Luther.  For  surely  the  battle  is  coming. 
Already  some  of  his  old  friends  fall  off.  They  say  the 
censor  at  Rome,  Prierias,  has  condemned  and  written 
against  his  theses." 

"But,"  rejoined  Christopher,  "they  say  also  that 
Pope  Leo  praised  Dr.  Luther's  genius,  and  said  it  was 
only  the  envy  of  the  monks  which  found  fault  with 
him.  Dr.  Luther  believes  the  Pope  only  needs  to  learn 
the  truth,  about  these  indulgence  -  mongers  to  disown 
them  at  once." 

"Honest  men  believe  all  men  honest  until  they  are 
proved  dishonest,"  said  Gottfried  drily;  "but  the 
Roman  court  is  expensive  and  the  indulgences  are  pro- 
fitable." 

This  morning  our  grandmother  asked  nervously 
what  was  the  meaning  of  the  shouting  she  had  heard 


ELS^S  STORY.  301 

yesterday  in  the  market-place,  and  the  glare  of  fire  she 
had  seen,  and  the  crackling? 

"Only  Tetzel's  lying  theses,"  said  Christopher.  She 
seemed  relieved. 

"In  my  early  days,"  she  said,  "I  learned  to  listen 
too  eagerly  to  sounds  like  that.  But  in  those  times 
they  burned  other  things  than  books  or  papers  in  the 
market-places." 

"Tetzel  threatens  to  do  so  again,"  said  Christopher. 

"No  doubt  they  will,  if  they  can,"  she  replied,  and 
relapsed  into  silence. 


302     CHRONICLES  OF  THE  SCHONBERG-COTTA  FAMILY. 


XV. 

fritz's  story. 

Adgustihian  Coitvent,  Mainz,  November  1617. 

Six  years  have  passed  since  I  have  written  any- 
thing in  this  old  chronicle  of  mine,  and  as  in  the  quiet 
of  this  convent  once  more  I  open  it,  the  ink  on  the 
first  pages  is  already  hrown  with  time-,  yet  a  strange 
familiar  fragrance  breathes  from  them,  as  of  early 
spring  flowers.  My  childhood  comes  hack  to  me,  with 
all  its  devout  simplicity;  my  youth,  with  all  its  rich 
prospects  and  its  huoyant,  ardent  hopes.  My  child- 
hood seems  like  one  of  those  green  quiet  valleys  in  my 
native  forests,  like  the  valley  of  my  native  Eisenach 
itself,  when  that  one  reach  of  the  forest,  and  that  one 
quiet  town  with  its  spires  and  church  hells,  and  that 
one  lowly  home  with  its  love,  its  cares,  and  its  twi- 
light talks  in  the  lumher-room,  were  all  the  world  I 
could  see. 

Youth  rises  hefore  me  like  that  first  journey  through 
the  forest  to  the  University  of  Erfurt,  when  the  world 
opened  to  me  like  the  plains  from  the  hreezy  heights, 
a  battle-field  for  glorious  achievement,  an  unbounded 
ocean  for  adventure  and  discovery,  a  vast  field  for 
noble  work. 

Then  came  another  brief  interval,  when  once  again 
the  lowly  home  at  Eisenach  became  to  me  dearer  and 
more  than  all  the  wide  world  beside,  and  all  earth  and 
all  life  seemed  to  grow  sacred  and  to  expand  before 


fritz's  story.  303 

me  in  the  light  of  one  pure,  holy,  loving  maiden's 
heart.  I  have  seen  nothing  so  heaven-like  since  as  she 
was.  But  then  came  the  great  crash  which  wrenched 
my  life  in  twain,  and  made  home  and  the  world  alike 
forbidden  ground  to  me. 

At  first,  after  that,  for  years  I  dared  not  think  of 
Eva.  But  since  my  pilgrimage  to  Rome,  I  venture  to 
cherish  her  memory  again.  I  thank  God  every  day 
that  nothing  can  erase  that  image  of  purity  and  love 
from  my  heart.  Had  it  not  been  for  that,  and  for  the 
recollection  of  Dr.  Luther's  manly,  honest  piety,  there 
are  times  when  the  very  existence  of  truth  and  holiness 
on  earth  would  have  seemed  inconceivable,  such  a 
chaos  of  corruption  has  the  world  appeared  to  me. 

How  often  has  the  little  lowly  hearth-fire,  glowing 
from  the  windows  of  the  old  home,  saved  me  from  ship- 
wreck, when  "for  many  days  neither  sun  nor  stars  ap- 
peared, and  no  small  tempest  lay  on  me." 

For  I  have  lived  during  these  years  behind  the  veil 
of  outward  shows,  a  poor  insignificant  monk,  before 
whom  none  thought  it  worth  while  to  inconvenience 
themselves  with  masks  or  disguises.  I  have  spent  hour 
after  hour,  moreover,  in  the  confessional.  I  have  been 
in  the  sacristy  before  the  mass,  and  at  the  convent  feast 
after  it.  And  I  have  spent  months  once  and  again  at 
the  heart  of  Christendom,  in  Rome  itself,  where  the  in- 
dulgences which  are  now  stirring  up  all  Germany  are 
manufactured,  and  where  the  money  gained  by  the  in- 
dulgences is  spent;  not  entirely  on  the  building  of  St. 
Peter's  or  in  holy  wars  against  the  Turks! 

Thank  God  that  a  voice  is  raised  at  last  against  this 
crying,  monstrous  lie,  the  honest  voice  of  Dr.  Luther. 
It  is  ringing  through  all  the  land.   I  have  just  returned 


304     CHRONICLES  OF  THE  SCHONBERG-COTTA  FAMILY. 

from  a  mission  through  Germany,  and  I  had  oppor- 
tunities of  observing  the  effect  of  the  theses. 

The  first  time  I  heard  of  them  was  from  a  sermon 
in  a  church  of  the  Dominicans  in  Bavaria. 

The  preacher  spoke  of  Dr.  Luther  by  name,  and 
reviled  the  theses  as  directly  inspired  by  the  devil,  de- 
claring that  their  wretched  author  would  have  a  place 
in  hell  lower  than  all  the  heretics,  from  Simon  Magus 
downward. 

The  congregation  were  roused  and  spoke  of  it  as 
they  dispersed.  Some  piously  wondered  who  this  new 
heretic  could  be  who  was  worse  even  than  Huss.  Others 
speculated  what  this  new  poisonous  doctrine  could  be; 
and  a  great  many  bought  a  copy  of  the  theses  to  see. 

In  the  Augustinian  convent  that  evening  they 
formed  the  subject  of  warm  debate.  Not  a  few  of  the 
monks  triumphed  in  them  as  an  effective  blow  against 
Tetzel  and  the  Dominicans.  A  few  rejoiced  and  said 
these  were  the  words  they  had  been  longing  to  hear 
for  years.  Many  expressed  wonder  that  people  should 
make  so  much  stir  about  them,  since  they  said  nothing 
more  than  all  honest  men  in  the  land  had  always 
thought. 

A  few  nights  afterwards  I  lodged  at  the  house  of 
Kuprecht  Haller,  a  priest  in  a  Franconian  village.  A 
woman  of  quiet  and  modest  appearance,  young  in  form 
but  worn  and  old  in  expression,  with  a  subdued, 
broken-spirited  bearing,  was  preparing  our  supper,  and 
whilst  she  was  serving  the  table  I  began  to  speak  to 
the  priest  about  the  theses  of  Dr.  Luther. 

He  motioned  to  me  to  keep  silence,  and  hastily 
turned  tbe  conversation. 

When  we  were  left  alone  he  explained  his  reasons. 


Fritz's  story.  305 

"I  gave  her  the  money  for  an  indulgence  letter  last 
week,  and  she  purchased  one  from  one  of  Dr.  Tetzel's 
company,"  he  said;  "and  when  she  returned  her  heart 
seemed  lighter  than  I  have  seen  it  for  years,  since  God 
smote  us  for  our  sins,  and  little  Dietrich  died.  I  would 
not  have  her  robbed  of  that  little  bit  of  comfort  for 
the  world,  be  it  true  or  false." 

Theirs  was  a  sad  story,  common  enough  in  every 
town  and  village  as  regarded  the  sin,  and  only  uncom- 
mon as  to  the  longing  for  better  things  which  yet 
lingered  in  the  hearts  of  the  guilty. 

I  suggested  her  returning  to  her  kindred  or  enter- 
ing a  convent. 

"She  has  no  kindred  left  that  would  receive  her," 
he  said;  "and  to  send  her  to  be  scorned  and  disciplined 
by  a  community  of  nuns  —  never!" 

"But  her  soul!"  I  said,  "and  yours?" 

"The  blessed  Lord  received  such,"  he  answered 
almost  fiercely,  "before  the  Pharisees." 

"Such  received  Him!"  I  said  quietly,  "but  receiv- 
ing Him  they  went  and  sinned  no  more." 

"And  when  did  God  ever  say  it  was  sin  for  a  priest 
to  marry?"  he  asked;  "not  in  the  Old  Testament,  for 
the  son  of  Elkanah  the  priest  and  Hannah  ministered 
before  the  Lord  in  the  temple,  as  perhaps  our  little 
Dietrich,"  he  added  in  a  low  tone,  "ministers  before 
Him  in  his  temple  now.  And  where  in  the  New  Testa- 
ment do  you  find  it  forbidden?" 

"The  Church  forbids  it,"  I  said. 

"Since  when?"  he  asked.  "The  subject  is  too  near 
my  heart  for  me  not  to  have  searched  to  see.  And 
five  hundred  years  ago,  I  have  read,  before  the  days 
of  Hildebrand  the  pope,  many  a  village  pastor  had  his 

ScMnberg-Cotta  Family.  I.  20 


306     CHRONICLES   OF  THE  SCHONBERG-COTTA  FAMILY. 

lawful  wife,  whom  he  loved  as  I  love  Bertha;  for  God 
knows  neither  she  nor  I  ever  loved  another." 

uDoes  this  satisfy  her  conscience?"  I  asked. 

"Sometimes,"  he  replied  bitterly,  "but  only  some- 
times. Oftener  she  lives  as  one  under  a  curse,  afraid 
to  receive  any  good  thing,  and  bowing  to  every  sorrow 
as  her  bitter  desert,  and  the  foretaste  of  the  terrible 
retribution  to  come." 

"  Whatever  is  not  of  faith  is  sin,"  I  murmured. 

"But  what  will  be  the  portion  of  those  who  call 
what  God  sanctions  sin,"  he  said,  "and  bring  trouble 
and  pollution  into  hearts  as  pure  as  hers?" 

The  woman  entered  the  room  as  he  was  speaking, 
and  must  have  caught  his  words,  for  a  deep  crimson 
flushed  her  pale  face.  As  she  turned  away,  her  whole 
frame  quivered  with  a  suppressed  sob.  But  afterwards, 
when  the  priest  left  the  room,  she  came  up  to  me  and 
said,  looking  with  her  sad,  dark,  lustreless  eyes  at  me, 
"You  were  saying  that  some  doubt  the  efficacy  of  these 
indulgences?  But  do  you?  I  cannot  trust  him"  she 
added  softly,  "he  would  be  afraid  to  tell  me  if  he 
thought  so." 

I  hesitated  what  to  say.  I  could  not  tell  an  un- 
truth; and  before  those  searching,  earnest  eyes,  any 
attempt  at  evasion  would  have  been  vain. 

"You  do  not  believe  this  letter  can  do  anything  for 
me,"  she  said;  "nor  do  I."  And  moving  quietly  to  the 
hearth,  she  tore  the  indulgence  into  shreds,  and  threw 
it  on  the  flames. 

"Do  not  tell  him  this,"  she  said;  "he  thinks  it 
comforts  me." 

I  tried  to  say  some  words  about  repentance  and 
forgiveness  being  free  to  all. 


fritz's  story.  307 

"Repentance  for  me,"  she  said,  "would  be  to  leave 
him,  would  it  not?" 

I  could  not  deny  it. 

"I  will  never  leave  him,"  she  replied,  with  a  calm- 
ness which  was  more  like  principle  than  passion.  "He 
has  sacrificed  life  for  me;  but  for  me  he  might  have 
been  a  great  and  honoured  man.  And  do  you  think  I 
would  leave  him  to  bear  his  blighted  life  alone?" 

Ah!  it  was  no  dread  of  scorn  or  discipline  which 
kept  her  from  the  convent. 

For  some  time  I  was  silenced.  I  dared  neither  to 
reproach  nor  to  comfort.  At  length  I  said,  "Life, 
whether  joyful  or  sorrowful,  is  very  short.  Holiness 
is  infinitely  better  than  happiness  here,  and  holiness 
makes  happiness  in  the  life  beyond.  If  you  felt  it 
would  be  for  his  good,  you  would  do  anything,  at  any 
cost  to  yourself,  would  you  not?" 

Her  eyes  filled  with  tears.  "You  believe,  then, 
that  there  is  some  good  left,  even  in  me!"  she  said. 
"For  this  may  God  bless  you!"  and  silently  she  left 
the  room. 

Five  hundred  years  ago  these  two  lives  might  have 
been  holy,  honourable,  and  happy,  and  now!  — 

I  left  that  house  with  a  heavy  heart,  and  a  mind 
more  bewildered  than  before. 

But  that  pale,  worn  face;  those  deep,  sad,  truthful 
eyes;  and  that  brow,  that  might  have  been  as  pure  as 
the  brow  of  a  St.  Agnes,  have  haunted  me  often  since. 
And  whenever  I  think  of  it,  I  say,  — 

"God  be  merciful  to  them  and  to  me,  sinners!" 

For  had  not  my  own  good,  pure,  pious  mother 
doubts  and  scruples  almost  as  bitter?  Did  not  she  also 
live  too  often  as  if  under  a  curse?     Who  or  what  has 

20* 


308     CHRONICLES  OF  THE   SCHONBERG-COTTA  FAMILY. 

thrown  this  shadow  on  so  many  homes?  Who  that 
knows  the  interior  of  many  convents  dares  to  say  they 
are  holier  than  homes?  Who  that  has  lived  with,  or 
confessed  many  monks  or  nuns,  can  dare  to  say  their 
hearts  are  more  heavenly  than  those  of  husband  or 
wife,  father  or  mother?  Alas!  the  questions  of  that 
priest  are  nothing  new  to  me.  But  I  dare  not  entertain 
them.  For  if  monastic  life  is  a  delusion,  to  what  have 
I  sacrificed  hopes  which  were  so  absorbing,  and  might 
have  been  so  pure? 

Regrets  are  burdens  a  brave  man  must  cast  off. 
For  my  little  life  what  does  it  matter?  But  to  see 
vice  shamefully  reigning  in  the  most  sacred  places, 
and  scruples,  perhaps  false,  staining  the  purest  hearts, 
who  can  behold  these  things  and  not  mourn?  Crimes 
a  pagan  would  have  abhorred  atoned  for  by  a  few 
florins;  sins  which  the  Holy  Scriptures  scarcely  seem 
to  condemn,  weighing  on  tender  consciences  like  crimes! 
What  will  be  the  end  of  this  chaos? 


The  next  night  I  spent  in  the  castle  of  an  old 
knight  in  the  Thuringian  Forest,  Otto  von  Gersdorf. 
He  welcomed  me  very  hospitably  to  his  table,  at  which 
a  stately  old  lady  presided,  his  widowed  sister. 

"What  is  all  this  talk  about  Dr.  Luther  and  his 
theses?"  he  asked;  "only,  I  suppose,  some  petty  quarrel 
between  the  monks!  And  yet  my  nephew  Ulrich 
thinks  there  is  no  one  on  earth  like  this  little  Brother 
Martin.  Tou  good  Augustinians  do  not  like  the  Black 
Friars  to  have  all  the  profit;  is  that  it?"  he  asked 
laughing. 

"That  is  not  Dr.  Lutber's  motive,  at  all  events,"  I 


Fritz's  story.  309 

said;  "I  do  not  believe  money  is  more  to  him  than  it 
is  to  the  birds  of  the  air." 

"No,  brother,"  said  the  lady;  "think  of  the  beautiful 
words  our  Ghriemhild  read  us  from  his  book  on  the 
Lord's  Prayer." 

"Yes;  you,  and  Ulrich,  and  Chriemhild,  and  At- 
lantis," rejoined  the  old  knight,  "you  are  all  alike; 
the  little  friar  has  bewitched  you  all." 

The  names  of  my  sisters  made  my  heart  beat. 

"Does  the  lady  know  Chriemhild  and  Atlantis 
Cotta?"  I  asked. 

"Come,  nephew  Ulrich,"  said  the  knight  to  a  young 
man  who  just  then  entered  the  hall  from  the  chase; 
"tell  this  good  brother  all  you  know  of  Fraulein 
Chriemhild  Cotta." 

We  were  soon  the  best  friends;  and  long  after  the 
old  knight  and  his  sister  had  retired,  Ulrich  von  Gers- 
dorf  and  I  sat  up  discoursing  about  Dr.  Luther  and 
his  noble  words  and  deeds,  and  of  names  dearer  to  us 
both  even  than  his. 

"Then  you  are  Fritz!"  he  said  musingly  after  a 
pause;  "the  Fritz  they  all  delight  to  talk  of,  and  think 
no  one  can  ever  be  equal  to.  You  are  the  Fritz  that 
Chriemhild  says  her  mother  always  hoped  would  have 
wedded  that  angel  maiden  Eva  von  Schonberg,  who  is 
now  a  nun  at  Nimptschen;  whose  hymn-book  and 
'Theologia  Teutsch'  she  carried  with  her  to  the  con- 
vent. I  wonder  you  could  have  left  her  to  become  a 
monk,"  he  continued;  "your  vocation  must  have  been 
very  strong." 

At  that  moment  I  certainly  felt  very  weak.  But 
I  would  not  for  the  world  have  let  him  see  this,  and  I 


310     CHRONICLES   OF  THE   SCHONBERG-COTTA  FAMILY. 

said,  with  as  steady  a  voice  as  I  could  command,  "I 
believed  it  was  God's  will." 

"Well,"  lie  continued,  "it  is  good  for  any  one  to 
have  seen  her,  and  to  carry  that  image  of  purity  and 
piety  with  him  into  cloister  or  home.  It  is  better  than 
any  painting  of  the  saints,  to  have  that  angelic,  child- 
like countenance,  and  that  voice  sweet  as  church  music, 
in  one's  heart." 

"It  is,"  I  said,  and  I  could  not  have  said  a  word 
more.  Happily  for  me,  he  turned  to  another  subject 
and  expatiated  for  a  long  time  on  the  beauty  and 
goodness  of  his  little  Chriemhild,  who  was  to  be  his 
wife,  he  said,  next  year;  whilst  through  my  heart  only 
two  thoughts  remained  distinct,  namely,  what  my  mo- 
ther had  wished  about  Eva  and  me,  and  that  Eva  had 
taken  my  "Theologia  Teutsch"  into  the  convent  with 
her. 

It  took  some  days  before  I  could  remove  that 
sweet,  guileless,  familiar  face,  to  the  saintly,  unearthly 
height  in  my  heart,  where  only  it  is  safe  for  me  to 
gaze  on  it. 

But  I  believe  Ulrich  thought  me  a  very  sympathiz- 
ing listener,  for  in  about  an  hour  he  said,  — 

"You  are  a  patient  and  good-natured  monk,  to 
listen  thus  to  my  romances.  However,  she  is  your 
sister,  and  I  wish  you  would  be  at  our  wedding.  But, 
at  all  events,  it  will  be  delightful  to  have  news  for 
Chriemhild  and  all  of  them  about  Fritz." 

I  had  intended  to  go  on  to  Wittenberg  for  a  few 
days,  but  after  that  conversation  I  did  not  dare  to  do 
so  at  once.  I  returned  to  the  university  of  Tubingen, 
to  quiet  my  mind  a  little  with  Greek  and  Hebrew, 
under  the  direction  of  the  excellent  Reuchlin,  it  being 


PKITZ's   STORY.  311 

the  will  of  our  Vicar- General  that  I  should  study  the 
lauguages. 

At  Tubingen  I  found  Dr.  Luther's  theses  the  great 
topic  of  debate.  Men  of  learning  rejoiced  in  the  theses 
as  an  assault  on  barbarism  and  ignorance;  men  of 
straightforward  integrity  hailed  them  as  a  protest 
against  a  system  of  lies  and  imposture;  men  of  piety 
gave  thanks  for  them  as  a  defence  of  holiness  and 
truth.  The  students  enthusiastically  greeted  Dr.  Luther 
as  the  prince  of  the  new  age;  the  aged  Reuchlin  and 
many  of  the  professors  recognised  him  as  an  assailant 
of  old  foes  from  a  new  point  of  attack. 

Here  I  attended  for  some  weeks  the  lectures  of  the 
young  doctor,  Philip  Melanchthon  (then  only  twenty- 
one,  yet  already  a  doctor  for  four  years),  until  he  was 
summoned  to  Wittenberg,  which  he  reached  on  the 
25th  of  August  1518. 

On  business  of  the  order,  I  was  deputed  about  the 
same  time  on  a  mission  to  the  Augustinian  convent  at 
Wittenberg,  so  that  I  saw  him  arrive.  The  disap- 
pointment at  his  first  appearance  was  great.  Could  this 
little  unpretending-looking  youth  be  the  great  scholar 
Reuchlin  had  recommended  so  warmly,  and  from  whose 
abilities  the  Elector  Frederick  expected  such  great  re- 
sults for  his  new  university? 

Dr.  Luther  was  among  the  first  to  discover  the 
treasure  hidden  in  this  insignificant  frame.  But  his 
first  Latin  harangue,  four  days  after  his  arrival,  won 
the  admiration  of  all;  and  very  soon  his  lecture-room 
was  crowded. 

This  was  the  event  which  absorbed  Wittenberg 
when  first  I  saw  it. 

The  return  to  my  old  home  was  very   strange  to 


312     CHRONICLES   OP   IHB   SCHONBLRG-COTTA  FAMILY, 

me.  Such  a  broad  barrier  of  time  and  circumstance 
bad  grown  up  between  me  and  tbose  most  familiar 
to  me! 

Else,  matronly,  as  she  was,  with  her  keys,  her 
stores,  her  large  household,  and  her  two  children,  the 
baby  Fritz  and  Gretchen,  was  in  heart  the  very  same 
to  me  as  when  we  parted  for  my  first  term  at  Erfurt. 
Her  honest,  kind  blue  eyes,  had  the  very  same  look. 
But  around  her  was  a  whole  new  world  of  strangers, 
strange  to  me  as  her  own  new  life,  with  whom  I  had 
no  links  whatever. 

With  Chriemhild  and  the  younger  children,  the  re- 
collection of  me  as  the  elder  brother  seemed  struggling 
with  their  reverence  for  the  priest.  Christopher  •  ap- 
peared to  look  on  me  with  a  mixture  of  pity,  and  re- 
spect, and  perplexity,  which  prevented  my  having  any 
intimate  intercourse  with  him  at  all. 

Only  my  mother  seemed  unchanged  with  regard  to 
me,  although  much  more  aged  and  feeble.  But  in  her 
affection  there  was  a  clinging  tenderness  which  pierced 
my  heart  more  than  the  bitterest  reproaches.  I  felt 
by  the  silent  watching  of  her  eyes  how  she  had 
missed  me. 

My  father  was  little  altered,  except  that  his  schemes 
appeared  to  give  him  a  new  and  placid  satisfaction,  in 
the  very  impossibility  of  their  fulfilment,  and  that  the 
relations  between  him  and  my  grandmother  were  much 
more  friendly. 

There  was  at  first  a  little  severity  in  our  grand- 
mother's manner  to  me,  which  wore  off  when  we  under- 
stood how  much  Dr.  Luther's  teaching  had  done  for  us 
both;  and  she  never  wearied  of  hearing  what  he  had 
said  and  done  at  Rome, 


fritz's  story.  313 

The  one  who,  I  felt,  would  have  been  entirely  the 
same,  was  gone  for  ever-,  and  I  could  scarcely  regret 
the  absence  which  left  that  one  image  undimmed  by 
the  touch  of  time,  and  surrounded  by  no  barriers  of 
change. 

But  of  Eva  no  one  spoke  to  me,  except  little 
Thekla,  who  sang  to  me  over  and  over  the  Latin 
hymns  Eva  had  taught  her,  and  asked  if  she  sang 
them  at  all  in  the  same  way. 

I  told  her  yes.  They  were  the  same  words ,  the 
same  melodies,  much  of  the  same  soft,  reverent,  in- 
nocent manner.  But  little  Thekla's  voice  was  deep 
and  powerful,  and  clear  like  a  thrush's;  and  Eva's  used 
to  be  like  the  soft  murmuring  of  a  dove  in  the  depth 
of  some  quiet  wood  —  hardly  a  voice  at  all  —  an 
embodied  prayer,  as  if  you  stood  at  the  threshold  of 
her  heart,  and  heard  the  music  of  her  happy,  holy, 
childlike  thoughts  within. 

No,  nothing  could  ever  break  the  echo  of  that 
voice  to  me. 

But  Thekla  and  I  became  great  friends.  She  had 
scarcely  known  me  of  old.  We  became  friends  as  we 
were.  There  was  nothing  to  recall,  nothing  to  efface. 
And  Cousin  Eva  had  been  to  her  as  a  star  or  angel 
in  heaven,  or  as  if  she  had  been  another  child  sent 
by  God  out  of  some  beautiful  old  legend  to  be  her 
friend. 

Altogether,  there  was  some  pain  in  this  visit  to  my 
old  home.  I  had  prayed  so  earnestly  that  the  blank 
my  departure  had  made  might  be  filled  up;  yet  now 
that  I  saw  it  filled,  and  the  life  of  my  beloved  running 
its  busy  course,  with  no  place  in  it  for  me,  it  left  a 
dreary  feeling  of  exile  on  my  heart.  If  the  dead  could 


314     CHRONICLES  OF  THE  SCHONBERG-COTTA  FAMILY. 

thus  return,  would  they  feel  anything  of  this?  Not  the 
holy  dead,  surely.  They  would  rejoice  that  the  sor- 
row, having  wrought  its  work,  should  cease  to  be  so 
hitter  —  that  the  blank  should,  not,  indeed,  be  filled 
(no  true  love  can  replace  another),  but  veiled  and 
made  fruitful,  as  time  and  nature  veil  all  ruins. 

But  the  holy  dead  would  revisit  earth  from  a  home, 
a  Father's  house;  and  that  the  cloister  is  not,  nor  can 
ever  be. 

Yet  I  would  gladly  have  remained  at  Wittenberg. 
Compared  with  Wittenberg,  all  the  world  seemed 
asleep.  There  it  was  morning,  and  an  atmosphere  ot 
hope  and  activity  was  around  my  heart.  Dr.  Luther 
was  there;  and,  whether  consciously  or  not,  all 
who  look  for  better  days  seem  to  fix  their  eyes  on 
him. 

But  I  was  sent  to  Mainz.  On  my  journey  thither 
I  went  out  of  my  way  to  take  a  new  book  of  Dr. 
Luther's  to  my  poor  Priest  Ruprecht  in  Franconia. 
His  village  lay  in  the  depths  of  a  pine  forest.  The 
book  was  the  Exposition  of  the  Lord's  Prayer  in  Ger- 
man, for  lay  and  unlearned  people.  The  priest's  house 
was  empty;  but  I  laid  the  book  on  a  wooden  seat  in 
the  porch,  with  my  name  written  in  it,  and  a  few 
words  of  gratitude  for  his  hospitality.  And  as  I  wound 
my  way  through  the  forest,  I  saw  from  a  height  on 
the  opposite  side  of  the  valley  a  woman  enter  the 
porch,  and  stoop  to  pick  up  the  book,  and  then  stand 
reading  it  in  the  doorway.  As  I  turned  away,  her 
figure  still  stood  motionless  in  the  arch  of  the  porch, 
with  the  white  leaves  of  the  open  book  relieved  against 
the  shadow  of  the  interior. 

I  prayed  that  the  words  might  be  written  on  her 


FRITZ  S   STORY. 


315 


heart.  "Wonderful  words  of  holy  love  and  grace  I 
knew  were  there,  which  would  restore  hope  and  purity 
to  any  heart  on  which  they  were  written. 

And  now  I  am  placed  in  this  Augustinian  monastery 
at  Mainz  in  the  Rhine-land. 

This  convent  has  its  own  peculiar  traditions.  Here 
is  a  dungeon  in  which,  not  forty  years  ago  (in  1481), 
died  John  of  Wesel  —  the  old  man  who  had  dared  to 
protest  against  indulgences,  and  to  utter  such  truths  as 
Dr.  Luther  is  upholding  now. 

An  aged  monk  of  this  monastery,  who  was  young 
when  John  of  Wesel  died,  remembers  him,  and  has 
often  spoken  to  me  about  him.  The  inquisitors  insti- 
tuted a  process  against  him,  which  was  carried  on,  like 
so  many  others,  in  the  secret  of  the  cloister. 

It  was  said  that  he  made  a  general  recantation,  but 
that  two  accusations  which  were  brought  against  him 
he  did  not  attempt  in  his  defence  to  deny.  They  were 
these:  "That  it  is  not  his  monastic  life  which  saves 
any  monk,  but  the  grace  of  God;"  and,  "That  the 
same  Holy  Spirit  who  inspired  the  Holy  Scriptures 
alone  can  interpret  them  with  power  to  the  heart." 

The  inquisitors  burned  his  books;  at  which,  my 
informant  said,  the  old  man  wept. 

"Why,"  he  said,  "should  men  be  so  inflamed  against 
him?  There  was  so  much  in  his  books  that  was  good, 
and  must  they  be  all  burned  for  the  little  evil  that  was 
mixed  with  the  good  ?  Surely  this  was  man's  judgment, 
not  God's  —  not  His  who  would  have  spared  Sodom, 
at  Abraham's  prayer,  for  but  ten  righteous,  had  they 
been  found  there.  0  God,"  he  sighed,  "must  the  good 
perish  with  the  evil?" 

But  the  inquisitors   were  not  to  be  moved.     The 


316  CHRONICLES  OF  THE  SCHONBERGrCOTTA  FAMILY. 

books  were  condemned  and  ignominiously  burned  in 
public;  the  old  man's  name  was  branded  with  heresy; 
and  he  himself  was  silenced,  and  left  in  the  convent 
prison  to  die. 

I  asked  the  monk  who  told  me  of  this,  what  were 
the  especial  heresies  for  which  John  of  Wesel  was  con- 
demned. 

"Heresies  against  the  Church,  I  believe,"  he  re- 
plied. "I  have  heard  him  in  his  sermons  declare  that 
the  Church  was  becoming  like  what  the  Jewish  nation 
was  in  the  days  of  our  Lord.  He  protested  against  the 
secular  splendours  of  the  priests  and  prelates  —  against 
the  cold  ceremonial  into  which  he  said  the  services  had 
sunk,  and  the  empty  superstitions  which  were  sub- 
stituted for  true  piety  of  heart  and  life.  He  said  that 
the  salt  had  lost  its  savour;  that  many  of  the  priests 
were  thieves  and  robbers,  and  not  shepherds;  that  the 
religion  in  fashion  was  little  better  than  that  of  the 
Pharisees  who  put  our  Lord  to  death  —  a  cloak  for 
spiritual  pride,  and  narrow,  selfish  bitterness.  He  de- 
clared that  divine  and  ecclesiastical  authority  were  of 
very  different  weight;  that  the  outward  professing 
Church  was  to  be  distinguished  from  the  true  living 
Church  of  Christ ;  that  the  power  of  absolution  given 
to  the  priests  was  sacramental,  and  not  judicial.  In  a 
sermon  at  Worms,  I  once  heard  him  say  he  thought 
little  of  the  Pope,  the  Church,  or  the  Councils,  as  a 
foundation  to  build  our  faith  upon.  'Christ  alone,'  he 
declared,  'I  praise.  May  the  word  of  Christ  dwell  in 
us  richly!' " 

"They  were  bold  words,"  I  remarked. 

"More  than  that,"  replied  the  aged  monk;  "Johu 
of  Wesel  protested  that  what  the  Bible  did  not  hold  as 


fritz's  story.  317 

sin,  neither  could  he  •,  and  he  is  even  reported  to  have 
said,  'Eat  on  fast  days,  if  thou  art  hungry."' 

"That  is  a  concession  many  of  the  monks  scarcely 
need,"  I  observed.  "His  life,  then,  was  not  condemned, 
but  only  his  doctrine." 

"I  was  sorry,"  the  old  monk  resumed,  "that  it  was 
necessary  to  condemn  him;  for  from  that  time  to  this, 
I  never  have  heard  preaching  that  stirred  the  heart 
like  his.  When  he  ascended  the  pulpit,  the  church 
was  thronged.  The  laity  understood  and  listened  to 
him  as  eagerly  as  the  religious.  It  was  a  pity  he  was 
a  heretic,  for  I  do  not  ever  expect  to  hear  his  like 
again." 

"You  have  never  heard  Dr.  Luther  preach?"  I 
said. 

"Dr.  Luther  who  wrote  those  theses  they  are  talk- 
ing so  much  of?"  he  asked.  "Do  the  people  throng 
to  hear  his  sermons,  and  hang  on  his  words  as  if  they 
were  words  of  life?" 

"They  do,"  I  replied. 

"Then,"  rejoined  the  old  monk  softly,  "let  Dr. 
Luther  take  care.  That  was  the  way  with  so  many  of 
the  heretical  preachers.  With  John  of  Goch  at  Mech- 
lin, and  John  Wessel  whom  they  expelled  from  Paris, 
I  have  heard  it  was  just  the  same.  But,"  he  continued, 
"if  Dr.  Luther  comes  to  Mainz,  I  will  certainly  try  to 
hear  him.  I  should  like  to  have  my  cold,  dry,  old 
heart  moved  like  that  again.  Often  when  I  read  the 
holy  Gospels  John  of  Wesel's  words  come  back.  Bro- 
ther, it  was  like  the  breath  of  life." 

The  last  man  that  ventured  to  say  in  the  face  of 
Germany  that  man's  word  is  not  to  be  placed  on  an 
equality  with  God's,   and  that  the  Bible  is   the  only 


318     CHRONICLES   OF  THE  SCHONBERGCOTTA  FAMILY. 

standard  of  truth,  and  the  one  rule  of  right  and  wrong 
—  this  is  how  he  died! 

How  will  it  he  with  the  next  —  with  the  man  that 
is  proclaiming  this  in  the  face  of  the  world  now? 

The  old  monk  turned  hack  to  me,  after  we  had 
separated,  and  said,  in  a  low  voice  — 

"Tell  Dr.  Luther  to  take  warning  hy  John  of 
Wesel.  Holy  men  and  great  preachers  may  so  easily 
become  heretics  without  knowing  it.  And  yet,"  he 
added,  "to  preach  such  sermons  as  John  of  Wesel,  I 
am  not  sure  it  is  not  worth  while  to  die  in  prison.  I 
think  I  could  be  content  to  die,  if  I  could  hear  one 
such  again !  Tell  Dr.  Luther  to  take  care  5  but  never- 
theless, if  he  comes  to  Mainz  I  will  hear  him." 

The  good,  then,  in  John  of  Wesel's  words,  has  not 
perished,  in  spite  of  the  flames. 


END   OF  "VOL.   I. 


STATE  NORMAL  SCHOOL, 

LiOS  ANCEhES,  CAU. 


